


The Making of Samwise

by Bill the Pony (TAFKAB)



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Coming of Age, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hobbit Courting, Hobbit Culture & Customs, M/M, Pre-Quest, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The Shire, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bildungsroman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 06:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 76
Words: 208,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10456992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/Bill%20the%20Pony
Summary: A history of Samwise Gamgee's life as he grows into his destiny.  (An old story)





	1. A Visit to Bag End

**Author's Note:**

> Bored during his parents' visit to Bilbo, Frodo goes wandering.

Frodo is relieved to get out of the stuffy parlour where his mother and his father and his cousin Bilbo sit droning on endlessly about dozens of relatives he's either never met, or wishes he hasn't. Grown-up talk is terribly dull, and the inside of the hole is dark, and the air inside is dusty and feels heavy like lead, as though it hasn't moved in a fortnight. The outdoors of Bag End is still tedious, but overall much nicer, and more amenable by far to a young teenager who still likes poking his nose into nooks and crannies to see what he can find.

The well holds a tight-knotted new hemp rope and a well-worn mossy bucket; the windlass is freshly-greased and doesn't creak as he turns it. The water inside the bucket is clear, reflecting patches of airy blue and a darker latticework of leaves. It tastes cool and secret on his tongue, sweet and pure and with the faintest echo of quiet solid earth and moss. He likes it more than the sometimes-muddy draw that comes from wells dug too close to the Brandywine.

The sunlight makes him squint as he steps from under the old rustling oak and hops the fence into the Road. It leads down to Hobbiton and past Bag End towards Overhill, a place where Frodo has never been.

The air is thick, filled with moisture from morning rains, so Frodo loosens his collar as he steps from the shade. He can feel the Sun pressing like a hot weight atop the crown of his head, signaling the rich, lazy days of summer to come. A butterfly flutters past and he thinks of chasing it, but he is a bit too old and decorous for that sort of thing nowadays, and so he wanders down towards Hobbiton instead, following the lazy curve of the Road as it makes a broad switchback on the Hill before taking its course past the smials that line Bagshot Row.

The earth is damp between his toes, a pleasant note of cool in contrast to the insistent Sun. Frodo enjoys it, not paying much attention to where he is going until he rounds a curve that follows a fold in the land and hears laughter coming from the Road before him.

Sitting in the middle of the way there is a hobbit-child, unexpectedly far-removed from any of the nearby smials and apparently quite unwatched. Frodo blinks a bit and goes still, waiting. A small smile curls the corner of his lip.

The child's back is to him; it is sitting in the midst of a rain-puddle that has gathered in the cart-ruts. Its only garment, a plain linen diaper, is quite thoroughly soaked with muddy water, and so is its tangle of curly hair. As Frodo watches, the child beats chubby palms against the surface of the puddle, causing it to erupt in a cascade of droplets that transform, catching the light of the Sun, into a rainfall of diamond sparkles. It crows with delight, reaching in an effort to catch the sparkling rain, then begins again, smacking the surface of the water with all its might.

"Samwise!" A fretful voice echoes faintly from lower down the valley. "Where have you got to? Come out now, and I'll give you a sweetmeat!" There is a note of panic in the voice, but the child ignores the call, intent on his puddle. Nevertheless, Frodo is certain now of the babe's name, and he starts forth.

"Whoa there," he says, and the babe forgets his play and turns wide eyes on Frodo, startled by the unexpected voice. He does not cry, blinking wet lashes, eyes clear hazel in a mud-streaked, chubby face.

"Your parents will be worried," Frodo continues. He judges the little lad can toddle; he is, after all, a good ways from home. He extends a hand and the child reaches up, catching his finger in a muddy palm. Frodo tugs, and the lad comes out of the mud to stand dripping and filthy in the Road.

"Samwise! Come out this minute, or you'll be in for a hiding!" The note of panic in the voice is stronger, and it has drawn nearer; this time the child heeds the call.

"Daisy," he says, childish but clear, and his hand tightens around Frodo's finger. His face pinches in a look of misery as he tilts his head back to Frodo, silently imploring help. Frodo is torn between laughter and sympathy; he has found himself in a similar position more often than he might like.

"Samwise!" The voice is high, thick with the Hobbiton working-man's brogue, and Frodo thinks it comes from one of the boy's sisters; she sounds not too much different in age from himself, for all the authority in her tone.

"There's nothing to do but face her," he explains. "She's worried about you, you know." He looks up and spots the lass toiling up the Road, climbing the steep part where it comes lifting out of the valley.

"He's here," Frodo calls, and her head lifts; some of the urgency goes out of her pace, but she comes on at a good clip for all of that. The little lad looks down at his toes and curls them in the mud, and Frodo feels a pang at his own betrayal. He tugs at Samwise's hand and they step forward, moving slowly, but as fast as the toddler's short legs can handle.

It is not long before Daisy draws near; the look on her face does not bode well for her little brother.

"Now see here," she addresses Samwise crossly, reaching for his hand, but Frodo interrupts her.

"I'm afraid it's my fault. I should have brought him home the moment I found him, but I didn't." Frodo prevaricates, taking a share of the blame. Only then does he hand the lad over. Daisy picks him up, grimacing with obvious distaste at the dirty water that paints him from head to toe. Samwise looks back at Frodo, eyes round once more, and flings his arms around her neck and clings there, suddenly shy of the stranger in his midst, hiding his filthy face in her neck. Their twin expressions of dismay drag a rueful chuckle from Frodo, though he tries to quash it.

The remark and the laugh both bring Daisy up short; she eyes Frodo closely and sharply, working to place him in the order of things even as she pushes at Samwise's dirty hands, trying uselessly to keep him from spoiling her curls and her frock.

"Frodo Baggins." He extends his hand and shakes hers politely, stifling another laugh-- her eyes go as wide as her brother's. "I'm Bilbo's cousin."

"Daisy Gamgee, if you please, sir." She curtsies with some difficulty given the living weight that is clutching her around the neck, but takes care to bob deep enough to suit Frodo's station and then some. "And this piece of mischief is my brother Samwise. We live in Number Three. My da gardens for Mr. Bilbo, sir." She pushes back a wisp of hair. "Thank you for watching out for our Sam."

"I've nothing better to do," Frodo says, and realizes it's true. "Come up to the smial, and I'll fetch out a basin and draw water so you can rinse him a bit before you carry him home."

Daisy considers that; her eyes dart nervously back towards her hole, then up towards Bag End, and Frodo can see the scales in her mind balancing his offer against her parents' ire if they learn she has let young Samwise wander and get himself as filthy as a wallowing pig into the bargain.

He takes the decision out of her hands by turning away and letting his silent assumption of command draw her along on his heels.

Soon young Samwise is sitting in a chipped earthenware basin on the green of the back lawn, plashing and paddling happily in the clean water while his diaper dries in the Sun on the fence. Meanwhile, Frodo plies Daisy with tales of Buckland, glad of the company and relieved that his afternoon has not been wasted.


	2. The Elf in the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finds someone unexpected in the garden at Bag End.

"But it's true! I saw an elf in Mr. Bilbo's garden!" Samwise Gamgee tugged impatiently at his brother Hamson's sleeve, fair bouncing with impatience. 

"You set too much store by Mr. Bilbo's stories, and you'll be seeing elves under your bed next." Hamson ruffled his hair, which upset Sam greatly; for he knew it meant Ham thought him foolish. "Now be off with you, Sam, and play. I've got to hoe the taters." 

Sam gave in reluctantly; he knew how tending growing things couldn't wait. Ham set his hoe over his shoulder and went off down the hill whistling, but Sam knew he wasn't lying. He'd seen the elf sitting in Mr. Bilbo's garden among the buttercups, very still and very beautiful, and somehow sad. He knew it was an elf, he just knew it! 

Sam brightened suddenly and ran down into the hay, where his friends were playing tag around an old stile. "Rosie!" Her curly head popped up; she was tangled and laughing. "I saw an elf in Mr. Bilbo's--" but she was already gone, running away through the waving grass with one of the other lads in hot pursuit, and she wasn't listening to Sam at all. 

Sam drew his shoulders up and stuck out his chin. All right, if nobody would listen to him, then he'd just go... he stared up the hill toward Bag End, trying to work up his courage. He'd just go talk to the elf by himself then, and let everyone else miss their chance. 

Sam stumped up the hill puffing a bit under the hot sun, determination keeping him going even though the day was growing hot. He moved as quiet as he could, a little shy about meeting an elf all by himself-- which was why he'd gone about telling folk in the first place, instead of investigating on his own. 

He couldn't see anything moving about down in the garden when he reached Mr. Bilbo's gate, but the flowers were tall and maybe the elf was hiding. Sam peered about from all angles and thought it might still be in the buttercups, only lying down now, so he crept down the hill as quiet as a mouse, and sure enough, there the elf lay, fast asleep in the Sun. 

It was an elf; it had to be, but from its height Sam judged it was a right young one. It wasn't no taller than a hobbit, but it had dark silky hair, darker than any hobbit's Sam had seen, and its skin was shell-white, not tanned like a proper hobbit's would be, and the eyelids that fanned over its high cheekbones were long and straight, not curved at all. It wore strange clothes, not like Sam had imagined elves might, but not like the hobbits around Hobbiton, wore, neither-- it had long breeches and a collared shirt with buttons that was even whiter than its skin, and no weskit or suspenders. It was a he. 

Sam watched the elf with wide eyes, standing so his shadow didn't fall across it while he studied it as it slept. Its cheeks were mottled faintly red, and Sam cast a worried glance up at the sun; Mr. Bilbo always said Elves liked the moon and stars so much... Sam wondered if maybe they didn't come out much in the daylight. The Sun could burn, if it had a mind, and Sam thought maybe he ought to wake his elf up and tell it where there was a shade tree, except that when he looked closer, he saw that the elf's lashes were wet, and he realized it was crying. 

Without his meaning to, he made a noise of distress in his throat, and those long wet lashes flew open. Eyes like clear crystal, as blue as an autumn sky, stared right at him, and Sam blushed from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes, knowing he'd been spying as he shouldn't. 

"Begging your pardon, sir." He stood on one foot, digging the toes of the other into the dirt. "Are you..." he quashed his curiosity with an effort. "Can I do aught to help?" 

The elf sat up and scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, ignoring Sam's belated offer of his own grubby kerchief.. "No." His voice was high and musical, but a little hoarse. 

"I could bring you a dipper of water, maybe, from Mr. Bilbo's well?" Sam took an eager step forward. 

The elf shook his head, those brilliant eyes never releasing him. Sam's six-year-old patience could not stand such a sore trial as a moment filled with unbroken silence. "Are you an elf?" he blurted, his voice eager. 

Now a smile played on the pale face, almost painfully. "Why?" 

"Well, you don't look like no hobbit I've ever seen." Sam suddenly felt bashful, afraid that he was wrong. "What with you being in Mr. Bilbo's garden, and with your white skin and your funny clothes, and your voice and all, I thought you must be one, since Mr. Bilbo knows lots of elves, even though I never saw one come to Hobbiton before." He could almost hear his father scold him for prattling, so he fell silent abruptly. 

His elf-- if he was one-- looked down at his arms and legs, and rubbed a fold of white cotton shirt between his fingers. "No," he said thoughtfully. "I'm only a hobbit." 

Sam's face fell. "Oh." Emboldened, he took the final step forward and then sat down at his new friend's side. "Well, I could still fetch you some water from the well. Mr. Bilbo doesn't mind, long as you don't step up on the rim where you might fall in, and mind you leave the bucket setting on the edge with the windlass wound up." 

That earned him a smile, and he beamed back, glad that the el-- the other hobbit wasn't crying no more. "I'm Sam. Samwise Gamgee," he added, making sure the introduction was done up proper. 

"Hamfast's youngest son?" 

Sam nodded, his chest puffed out with pride. "My dad takes care of Mr. Bilbo's garden. He says I can help him when I'm old enough." 

"I'm Frodo." His el-- Frodo held his hand out and Sam shook it solemnly. "I've come to live in Hobbiton." 

Sam bounced onto his feet, thrilled. "Then we can be friends! I'll show you where the best climbing trees are, and the wading hole, and where you can get apples without having the dogs set on you--" he trailed to a halt, seeing sadness in Frodo's eyes. "But maybe you have to work, like my brothers Ham and Hal." Even as he said it, he knew that didn't seem right, somehow-- Hal and Ham were burly and brown, but Frodo wasn't. Maybe he didn't have to help his parents. Maybe he was on his own, but if he was just a hobbit and not an elf after all, then he should have his own family, with his mother and father watching after him and all. He was older than Sam, but he wasn't old enough to be out traipsing about on his own. 

Frodo shook his head and looked away, and Sam felt shy; shy enough that he didn't ask any more questions. 

A honeybee, buzzing heavily under its load of pollen, settled on a nearby snapdragon and crawled inside, its body velveted with golden powder. "Look, you can hem them up inside the flowers," Sam reached and pinched the blossom very gently, trapping the bee inside the throat of the flower. "But then you let them out again, and they don't know it was you, so they don't sting you. See?" They watched the bee as it came out again and flew away with a low droning buzz. "It don't hurt them none, seemingly." 

"Frodo!" Mr. Bilbo's call interrupted Sam, and Frodo looked up the Hill. 

"I have to go, Sam. Maybe you can show me another time." He got up, dusted himself off, and ran up the hill. Sam followed, rather more slowly, watching Frodo vanish into Bag End. Bilbo gave Sam a kindly nod, then followed Frodo inside. 

"If that don't beat all," Sam murmured, kicking up dust as he headed back toward his own hobbit hole. He'd not found an elf, but it might be he'd found something even better. 

"Sam!" His mother was calling for him by the time he neared home. "Come in and wash your hands!" 

His father and brothers were already there, and Daisy and May were bustling about helping to fix the noon meal while his mother went to feed Marigold, who lay crying in her cradle. Sam sidled in and slid under the table, hoping his mother wouldn't check his fingernails too close, or else he'd have to have another wash, but the family wasn't paying him any mind. 

"Mr. Bilbo's ward arrived in Hobbiton today," the Gaffer announced. "There'll be a Baggins in Bag End for a long time to come now, even if Mr. Bilbo don't find no wife and settle with her." 

"He's a Baggins?" Hal blinked. "I heard he was a Brandybuck." 

"It's Mr. Drogo Baggins's son Frodo. Mr. Drogo married Miss Primula Brandybuck, but they went out boating on the Brandywine and drownded, and he's been living at Brandy Hall this fortnight or more, running wild with nobody to bring him up proper." The Gaffer shook his head and he continued talking, but Sam hardly heard him. He stared down at his plate as Daisy set it in front of him: savory steam was rising from new young corn and crisp snap beans and fried taters, but his stomach clenched up with sorrow and he didn't feel hungry no more. 

"--That must have been who our Sam saw in the garden, and thought he was an elf!" Ham laughed softly. 

Sam heard this; he went crimson to the ears and poked at his plate. 

"He's a fair-featured one, there's no doubting it. His mother was too, and her bloodline went back to the Old Took." The Gaffer nodded sagely, and the others seemed to know what he meant by it, though Sam was already too mortified to admit his own bafflement. The Gaffer's attention turned to him, unexpected. "You ought to be friendly with Mr. Frodo, Samwise, for it's him you'll be working for when you're grown, I'll warrant. But don't take that to mean you can make free to be a nuisance to him every minute." 

Sam ducked his head. "I won't," he vowed obediently, for it wasn't bothersome, was it, if Mr. Frodo wanted Sam to show him all the things he'd promised? Besides, by Sam's reckoning, Frodo Baggins would be needing all the friends he could get, Samwise Gamgee included. 

Daisy poked at him and leaned over to whisper. "You eat, Sam. I'll wager Mr. Frodo will be back in the garden this afternoon, and he'll be needing someone to show him about." She winked at Sam when he turned to her, round-eyed, and brightened. 

After that he couldn't eat fast enough, and he all but ran out the door when he was finished, trotting up the hill towards Bag End, leaving his father chuckling on the doorstep, watching after him.


	3. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam makes an arrangement regarding his future.

Sam stood outside Mr. Bilbo's door, gazing at the bell rope. He had almost everything he needed, and that was saying somewhat. He had his writing rock, which he'd found when his dad took him past the quarry on the way to market and kept ever since, because he didn't want to waste it scrawling letters such as didn't mean anything, and a nice flat black stone he'd found in the gravelly spot in the river-- a little small, but it would do for a slate. 

The only thing Sam didn't have was a teacher, and he reckoned he could fix that, if he asked just right. Mr. Bilbo had a soft heart, and after all, wasn't he teaching Mr. Frodo anyway? Sam could just keep right quiet in a corner and pay close mind to everything Mr. Bilbo said to Mr. Frodo, and he'd be no trouble at all, leastways that's how he figured it. 

He tugged at the bell rope and stood back anxiously, hiding his treasures behind his back. The round door swung open and Bilbo looked down on him, a mild frown smoothing right off his forehead when he saw Sam standing there. "What can I do for you this morning, Master Samwise?" 

Sam dug his toe into a crack between the stones of the path. "My dad, he said I could come up here and ask you to teach me my letters, since you said you were already teaching Mr. Frodo and all, and I already have everything I need, and so I'm asking, please, Mr. Bilbo, sir! I'll just sit quiet and listen, and I won't make no trouble." He held out his lump of soft chalk and his little piece of slate, holding his breath in the hopes that Mr. Bilbo wouldn't say no. 

Bilbo studied him for a moment, his face caught between amusement and another feeling, one Sam couldn't fathom. "It looks like you're ready enough." He stepped out of the door and let Sam come inside. 

Sam stared about the inside of the hole in amazement; it was the finest place he had ever seen. The tile floor was cool under his dusty feet, there was a holder hanging from the ceiling with six candles in it, and all the walls were smooth with nice fresh paint that hadn't got no holes gouged in it at all. The hall branched out, and straight ahead it delved into the hill, with what Sam thought must be doors to bedrooms and pantries and closets leading off it, and on the other it went through a cluttered room toward Mr. Bilbo's kitchen. 

Frodo sat there at a table, and a kettle was just starting to sing on the hob. He lifted his head and smiled at Sam, and Sam lost the rest of his nervousness, hurrying in to see what he was doing. He wasn't writing, though he had a fancy slate with a wood frame lying at his elbow. Instead, he held a sheaf of parchments with writing already on them. Sam looked, but there weren't no pictures, and he couldn't make a thing out of them. "Good morning, Sam." 

"It looks as though I have another pupil," Bilbo announced. "Hop up here, Sam my lad." He patted the seat of a tall chair set across the table from Frodo and Sam scrambled to obey. 

Bilbo had to build him a tower of cushions to sit on before he could reach the table, but at last he was settled, his flat river rock in front of him and his chalk in his hand. Bilbo took up the slate from next to Frodo's elbow. "I'm going to draw you an alphabet, Sam. You copy the letters, and I'll tell you their names as you go along." He began to draw the letters, taking care with their graceful arcs and curves. 

Sam worked diligently at copying the letters, whispering their names over and over as he made each one. It was hard work, and sometimes Mr. Bilbo made him do it over and over again, so that his chalk wore down. He frowned at it, worried. His dad hadn't told him this would be so hard, and where was he going to get more writing rock when he ran out? That was the only thing that spoiled the morning for him... he was so slow at learning, he'd never finish it, seemingly. 

"Frodo, make us some more tea." Bilbo took the slate again and rubbed it out. "And give Sam a bit of sugar in his." He smiled down at Sam. "You're doing well, lad. I thought it wouldn't be an hour before you were begging to be let out, but here you are, and it's nearly time for elevenses." Bilbo went into the kitchen and came out with a plate bearing a round brown loaf and half a ring of hard, crumbling yellow cheese. He cut them both, and set a portion before Sam. 

"Thank you, Mr. Bilbo." Sam reached eagerly for the bread and tore it in two, putting his cheese in between the halves. Frodo set a mug of tea at his elbow, and he drank greedily. 

"What do you think of your readings, Frodo my boy?" Bilbo turned his attention to his nephew. 

"I like your poetry better." Frodo sat back thoughtfully, sipping his own tea. "It's more like elves, somehow." 

Bilbo gave him a broad smile, clearly pleased with the compliment. "Well, Men as a whole have never had much use for the fair folk, and most times they think more about what's useful than what's beautiful, but you can't ignore them because of it. They're a busy lot, and some can be clever, and some of them know things that bear remembering." 

"Elves?" Sam almost forgot his bread and cheese, he was so eager. "Do you have some elf poems, Mr. Bilbo?" 

"Some?" Bilbo reached to the top of a tall stack for a paper and started to read; Sam's eyes went wide, for the words were in Elvish. The poem sounded more like a song to him, soft tones rising and falling so beautifully that he near forgot he didn't understand their meanings. 

"How long before I can learn that?" Sam bounced out of his chair, scattering pillows everywhere. 

"Years and years, I'm afraid, Sam." Frodo smiled at him. "I can't read it myself yet, and I can read the common tongue quite well, but it took me years to learn that, too." 

Sam stared at him with dismay; he looked back at his little slate and his dwindling chalk, and his face fell. He went to help Mr. Bilbo pick up the scattered cushions. 

"What's the matter, Sam?" Frodo asked. 

"Nothing, sir, it's just that I don't have years to spend, and I'm nearly out of chalk as it is." Sam tried to keep a cheerful face, mostly failing. 

Bilbo exchanged glances with Frodo; for a moment he had that strange look again, the one Sam hadn't understood earlier. "Well, now, you may not have years to spend on learning Elvish, but I'm sure we can manage to get you reading the common tongue. It would be a help to your father, you can be certain of that. I've done a lot of translations from Elvish, and when you learn your letters well enough, I'll teach you to copy them and to read them. You'd like that, wouldn't you, lad?" 

Sam nodded, his happiness restored, and Bilbo laid a hand on his head. "Then finish your bread and cheese, and I'll teach you to write your name before you go. You tell your Gaffer that I said you're to come back tomorrow, and I'll see to it that you can do a bit of reading and writing for him by the time you're old enough to work in the fields and help tend the garden." 

"But my chalk, sir..." Sam frowned, suddenly stricken. "It's all but gone, and I don't have no more." 

"You have plenty," Bilbo smiled at him, and sure enough, when Sam looked onto the table there was chalk lying on his river rock, but it was a big piece, and his worn-down bit was gone. "I've never seen a piece of chalk do that, Sam. Have you?" Bilbo sounded amused. 

Sam stared at it with surprise, and Frodo smiled at him from across the table. "Call it elf-magic." 

Sam wasn't quite sure what to believe, especially since Frodo's hand was closed around something that he couldn't see and what's more, he looked like he might laugh any minute, but since Sam could keep on with his learning (and be around Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo and hear about elves, too), he decided that didn't matter a bit. 

"Thank you, Mr. Bilbo sir!" 

Sam climbed up in the chair once more and stood ready for his lessons, and when he carried his slate down the hill again, it had his name written on it by his own hand.


	4. Weeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam learns valuable lessons about gardening.

Sam knelt down on the green grass in the garden at Bag End, his dirty fingers busy in a flowerbed. The hot Sun beat down on his shoulders and he was thirsty, but this was Mr. Bilbo's garden and his dad had told him they wouldn't stop till it were done up proper. 

He was starting to know the difference between flowers and weeds, which was more knowledge than he had when he first started out, and he reckoned that was why he'd been allowed to move from working in his mother's garden to working here. He was glad, though he didn't mind helping his mother; at Bag End there was always the hope that he might see or hear something interesting-- what with Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo being in and out all the time, he saw a lot more of them working here than he did at home. 

Sam knelt, eyeing the flowerbed carefully, making sure he hadn't missed nothing. It still troubled him to pull up the young, tender shoots of green grass, the ruffled purple basil that had spread out of the herb beds and went well nigh everywhere, and the dandylions that bloomed so pretty of a summer, but he knew he'd better do it because the Gaffer said he must. 

"That's a good clean job you're doing, Sam." The Gaffer came up behind him without warning, as though conjured by his thought, and directed him to a new patch to work in now that the first was finished. "Mind 'ee don't disturb the roots o' them lilies. Mr. Bilbo favors them special." 

"I still don't see why such as these can't stay," Sam puffed, pulling at a thick clump of dandylion leaves. The soil was moist and the dirt rich and loose, but the tough root had sunk deep, and he couldn't budge it. "They bloom up right pretty." 

"That they do, but let 'em run free, and soon they'd take the whole bed." The Gaffer crouched down next to Sam and curled his hard fingers around the stubborn clump of leaves, uprooting it easily. "We'll let them bide in the lawn, where they belong, but not hereabouts. That's the place as is for grass and dandylions, and this is the one as is for lilies, see." 

Sam nodded and wiped his brow. "Still, I can't help but feel sorry for them, sir." 

"I know, lad. You've got a soft spot for living things, and it'll make you a fine gardener." The Gaffer watched with satisfaction as Sam patted down the ruffled soil where the dandylions had grown, making sure the nearby lily bulbs and their roots were well-covered. "There's good soil beneath your fingernails, lad." It was rare praise, and Sam blushed, flustered. 

"Now, them dandylions." The Gaffer held up the cluster he'd uprooted. "They grow anywhere, I reckon. You can't crowd 'em out, you can't mow 'em out, you can't give 'em too much sun. They even like the shade, seemingly. If you dig 'em out, the wind just blows seed straight back and you've got a new crop right soon. But the lilies and the roses-- they're different. You have to feed 'em and keep 'em weeded and mulch 'em in for winter, or they die out. Some withers in frost in spite of all that can be done for 'em. Them pansies, now, they can't take too much sun, or they straggle out and quit blooming. That begonia's got to come inside over winter. Spinach and lettuce bolts when it gets hot. Taters turn green and bitter and they don't bear good if you don't work soil up to the plants." He paused to reflect. "You've got to know what's wanted and serve the needs of each, or they won't serve you." 

He paused to reflect, and Sam listened intently. "It's the same with people, seemingly. Some of 'em, now, they're like dandylions; they thrive all right most any place they poke their heads up. Some are like the roses, and they take a lot of care, and others won't bloom no matter what-- such as them are the ones you might as well weed right out, though you'd best not go repeating that last, Samwise Gamgee." He straightened with a crackle of knees and returned to his pruning, culling out dead blackberry canes and piling them on a barrow. 

"So if I don't pull up the grass, it won't let the lilies grow." Sam frowned. 

"And if someone don't butcher pigs or wring the neck of a chicken now and then, families go hungry." His brother Hal spared a hand to tousled Sam's curly head, back with a load of mulch in a cart. "It's all to make life better, see?" 

Sam nodded, and he though he saw the sense, he still felt bad about it. He pondered the matter for the rest of the morning, listening to the rhythm of his Gaffer's shears.


	5. A Lazy Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo reads Sam a story.

The Gaffer's heart was kinder than his words, and though Sam must work, he did not find his tasks too dreadful-- mostly he spent the time learning the names and needs of different plants as his father pointed them out with a callused finger, weeding a few beds and carrying his small loads of uprooted weeds to the compost heap, then finally being dismissed to do as he saw fit. And that always included Frodo, if he could manage it. 

Sam tapped at Bilbo's wide green door carefully, and Frodo answered, smiling down at him. Bilbo had gone out only a few minutes before, so he knew Frodo was at a loose end. Sam gathered his courage. "Would you like to go with me down near Hobbiton where the climbing trees are? I'm not allowed to go by myself, but they're a sight to see, and I can go if you'll walk with me." 

Frodo smiled. "All right, Sam." He stepped out and took a deep breath, turning his face up into the sunshine. 

They walked through Hobbiton with Sam clinging to Frodo's hand, pointing out the sights of the marketplace and the houses of his friends; Frodo listened attentively, and many smiling faces greeted them as they passed by. At last they reached the wood where the best climbing trees stood; Sam surveyed them with satisfaction. The older children came here a great deal, he knew, and though he was too small to climb most of the trees himself, Frodo wouldn't be. 

Sam marched right up to one great tree with a broad trunk that split into two thick branches not far above the ground. "This is the best one, but I can't climb it." 

Frodo laughed softly. "Let's see if I can." He handed Sam the book that he'd brought and examined the tree for a moment, then set his foot against one gnarled root and scrambled up till he sat at the fork of the trunk between the two branches. 

Sam fair bounced with excitement, reaching up to him, and Frodo took the book, tucking it safely away inside his shirt. Then he lay down on his belly and leaned way over. He caught Sam's arms and tugged him up with a grunt of effort; Sam scrambled up, trying not to step on Frodo when he arrived, and there was a long, sweaty, tangled melee before they sorted themselves out comfortably with Frodo lying on his back in the broad flat space between the boughs and Sam tucked up snug in the crook of his arm with his head under Frodo's chin where there was no chance that he might fall. 

"Next time I'll boost you up first before I climb," Frodo was puffing a little, but he was smiling. "You're not as light as you look, little one." 

"Will you read me one of the tales out of your book, Mr. Frodo?" Sam patted the square bulge under Frodo's shirt. 

"All right, Sam." Frodo smiled, and he fished it out, carefully turning the pages. "What sort of tale would you like to hear?" 

"Something with elves," Sam answered instantly, and Frodo laughed. 

"What kind of something with elves?" He flipped pages. "Poetry? A love story?" 

Sam wrinkled his nose at that. "An adventure story," he made his choice after a moment's deliberation. 

"Well, the love stories in this book have adventures in them," Frodo said, "and some of the poems do too, but not all of them have elves." 

"Read me your favorite story, then," Sam decided, and Frodo chuckled, flipping through the book. 

"This story tells how the Old Took saved the Shire from white wolves-- and was helped by elves," Frodo assured Sam as an afterthought. "It was during the Fell Winter of 2911, a long time before either of us were born..." 

Sam settled in, feeling Frodo's voice hum softly underneath his cheek, his eyes following Frodo's finger as it moved under the lines until the warm afternoon made his lids droop. Then he listened with his eyes closed until Frodo's voice carried him deep into dreams of the Old Took riding on a real horse with elf-lords from Rivendell at his side, driving the white wolves back over the frozen Brandywine and far away. 

At last Frodo saw that his audience was fast asleep and shut the book; he put it behind his head and closed his own eyes. Soon they were both sleeping, tucked away safely in the crook of their sturdy tree-trunk, dappled by summer sunlight.


	6. Baking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam helps his mother in the kitchen.

His mother's kitchen always smelled wonderful. It seemed that it didn't matter whether he was coming inside after studying, playing, or working with his dad-- there was always a savory scent emerging from his hobbit hole that meant his mother had cooked something good and was making ready to put it on the table. 

Sam stood with her in the small, crumbling-walled kitchen that was always warm even when the rest of the hole wasn't; the kitchen wall held one of their two windows, and the light of the Sun streamed down over his mother as she bent to pull golden, hot bread out of the old cast iron oven. 

"Hop out to the wood box right quick and bring me another stick or two, Sam," she put the new loaves down on the table-- four of them-- and wiped her sweaty face. "I'll need more coals for the next baking." 

He trotted out past his sisters in the main room-- Daisy was rocking Marigold, who had been crying half the morning, and singing to her. May wasn't nowhere to be seen, and Sam reckoned she was outside playing. He fetched a half-dozen good dry sticks, the kind he knew his mother liked to use for bread-- not too big, or they wouldn't burn down to coals fast enough, and not too small, or they wouldn't make coals that lasted. 

When he got back, his mother was pulling out a bowl with a wet cloth draped over it-- the cloth had drooped in a soft arc without touching anything when she first set the bowl away, but now it was rounded over the risen mound of dough, which stuck up well over the top of the bowl's rim. It was a marvel to Sam, and he always wanted to feel of the risen dough-- it was alive like a plant, seemingly, otherwise it wouldn't grow like that. 

His mother laughed when he said as much. "That I don't know, Sam, but I know it's not alive like 'ee are." She wouldn't let him touch the stove yet, saying he wasn't old enough, so she put the wood in herself. The rush of heat from the firebox washed over Sam as he watched the bowl, wondering if he could see it rising more, but he couldn't. 

"Don't 'ee touch that, Sam. That's what I made special for Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo." She had nuts and sugar paste mixed up, ready to go in and make the bread sweet; Sam had helped her make them ready before they started baking the family's own plain bread. 

His mother started kneading the bread on the table. Sometimes she let him help, so he climbed up on a stool and watched, hopeful-like. She spared him a smile. "Not today, Sam. I'm in a rush, what with them not giving me more notice that they were having guests and all. It must be a big enough party, if Mr. Bilbo can't handle his own baking." 

"Mr. Frodo's cousins are coming to visit." Sam had overheard Bilbo and Frodo speaking of this while he worked on his writing. "Some as he knew when he lived in Buckland." He hopped down, near dancing with excitement. 

"That's right, and 'ee best stay out of their way." Her strong hands punched at the dough, then worked it. "They'll be Mr. Frodo's age, and he won't have time for your foolishness, Sam." 

Sam frowned; he hadn't considered this. Sometimes he almost forgot Frodo was twelve years older than he was. "Mr. Frodo don't think it's foolishness, when I'm about." His words were stout. 

"Maybe not, but his cousins will, I'll warrant, and he'll be hosting them, not you, Samwise Gamgee." She gave the dough a particularly hard shove. "Don't be expecting aught else, or you'll get your heart broke." 

Sam stilled, uncertainty assailing him, watching her dust more flour on the kneading board and pat her hands in it. His heart recovered right fast, though. He had faith in Mr. Frodo. 

"At any rate, it'll give you more time with me while they're about," she said softly. "I hardly see 'ee anymore, Sam, not since Mr. Frodo came to bide with Mr. Bilbo, and your dad started 'ee working in the gardens up at Bag End. Now that Hamson's gone and Hal's growing up and you've started going out working, it gets lonesome from time to time with just me and the girls in the house." 

She paused in working the bread, sighing and fanning herself with her apron. "It seems the summers get hotter every year." She went back to her kneading after a moment's rest. "Watch me right sharp, Sam, because 'ee need to learn how to do this. I've a mind to teach 'ee cooking, lad, and how to do work about the house as well as gardening. That way 'ee can valet for Mr. Bilbo, and Mr. Frodo too. They could use a proper valet, what with there not being no womenfolk to see to that big rambling hole. And I reckon you'll always be in and out up there, if 'ee have a say in it. 'Ee might as well make yourself worth something more to them than just your strong back." 

Sam blinked up at her, not understanding the word. "Valet?" 

"Keep house for them," she explained. "They're gentlehobbits, Sam, and they've other things to do than housework and gardening. Like that reading and writing they've been teaching 'ee." She finished kneading and patted the dough out flat. "Now, fetch me the sugar paste, and we'll let this rise again. The stove should be just about ready by then." 

That part about being a valet sounded all right to Sam; he didn't mind being a help, and anything that let him stay up at Bag End was fine, by his reckoning. He didn't understand why his mother's eyes were sad when she said it, or why she even said half of what she did, but he tried to listen because he knew she wanted him to. 

She shook her head, rousing herself from her thoughts, and spread the paste he'd brought over the dough and rolled it, then pinched the ends up tight and put it in its bowl. "Come here, Sam." She drew him up in her lap. "You're just a child still. Sometimes I worry that your lessons will come hard for 'ee." Her eyes were shining, too bright. 

"I learn fast, Mr. Bilbo says." Maybe that would be a comfort to her. 

"I know." She ruffled his hair. 

"Bell?" the Gaffer came to the door of the kitchen. "If you're finished with that boy, I need him up on the hill." 

"We're done, or near enough, Ham." She stood up and set Sam on his feet, giving him a little push out the door. "Tun along now, and when 'ee get back, I'll have something special baked up ." 

He ran along, following his father.


	7. Early Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam spend a spring morning outdoors.

Sometimes spring came early-- and to Sam it felt like a release from prison, escaping the stuffy confines of the family hole and venturing out again in his shirtsleeves. The birds seemed to appreciate it too, singing happily in the hedgerow along the Road, and he could smell the rich musty scent of earth and green things growing. 

It would feel good to bury his hands in the earth again, and squeeze it around the tender roots of young plants, and then watch them reach for the sky and blossom. And that time wasn't so far off, seemingly-- the Sun felt almost too hot through the rough linen shirt he wore, beating down on his neck blissfully and chasing winter aches away. 

Half the Shire was out and about, people stirring everywhere, especially children. They darted through the stiles and across the meadows, shouting to one another, but Sam Gamgee had more important things on his mind. 

He hardly felt the climb as he neared Bag End, wondering if he would be quite welcome on his errand. His mother hadn't cautioned him like he suspected his father would have done if Hamfast had known his intentions, but had wrapped one of her best cakes in a linen towel and put it in his hands with a smile and a wink, then told him to be off. 

Sam knocked bashfully on the wide green door and stood back, waiting for it to open. His heart leaped when Frodo's face peered out; not that he didn't like Mr. Bilbo, but it being Frodo made things easier, seeing as how Sam planned to ask for him no matter who answered. Still, it being Frodo at the door meant he didn't have to wonder if it would be impolite not to ask Bilbo along, too. 

Frodo's polite company-smile warmed as he looked down on Sam. "Master Gamgee." He seemed to sense Sam's extra gravity, and responded in kind. "To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" His eyes twinkled. 

Sam didn't have an answer set for that question, but one came to him anyway. 'To spring, sir, and the first really warm day. I've brought one of my mother's best cakes, and I thought you might--" he felt a proper fool, but plowed on anyway-- "like to get out a bit. There's a place on top of the Hill where we could sit and have a bite and see halfway across the Shire." 

Frodo nodded gravely. "It is a lovely day. Just a minute, and I'll get my walking stick." He vanished, leaving the door half-open; Sam heard the creaking sound of windows opening so that the bright morning could seep into Bilbo's kitchen and sitting room. Frodo reappeared presently and stood blinking in the light, tilting his face up to let the Sun pour down on skin too pale from a long winter indoors. 

"We'll stop by the springhouse and get some milk first?" Frodo suggested, and Sam nodded eagerly. They pattered down the hill together, scenting the clean air. It wasn't far to the springhouse that the Bagginses and the Gamgees and the Rumbles shared; it stood on a place near to the border of all three families' land. A trickle of water welled from the foot of the Hill there and wended its way down to join with the Water in Hobbiton; the families had always shared the long, low sod-thatched hut that sat over the spring. 

Sam's own father made sure that the grass stayed cut around it and saw to it that the springbox was kept in good repair, while Gaffer Rumble kept the house itself in order. Bilbo furnished the tools and materials that went into its upkeep, and the three families all had their own shelf inside the springbox, where butter and milk and other items could be kept cool during summer's heat. The spring had never failed in Sam's Gaffer's memory, not even when droughts came, and it was the envy of the neighborhood. 

For himself, Sam liked to go inside on hot days and sit in the shade watching the water flowing over the mossy lip of the long wooden spring-box at its lowest end. When it was unbearably hot, he'd trail his fingers under the rivulet to cool off. He knew better than to touch Mr. Bilbo's milk bottles or the Rumbles' butter. His own mother liked to put summer melons into the spring-box in the morning and then serve them up of an evening, sweet and so cold they almost hurt Sam's teeth. He loved them that way almost as much as he enjoyed them sun-warm and fresh-cut by his own father's knife. 

Frodo opened the door and the ducked inside. It was cool and damp; Sam's toes squashed in to the soft mud floor. Frodo reached into the spring-box and took a bottle of milk, smiling at Sam, and together they went out, abandoning the Road to climb up the hill. The grass was coarse and harsh, but with a faint feathering of new green at the base of old dried tufts, and it made for slippery climbing. Frodo took the cake from Sam and used his stick for support, and Sam pulled himself up by clutching at the long streamers of dead, dry grass. 

They were both puffing when they arrived at the top, and they sat down beneath a tree to catch their breath. The Shire spread out before them, birds flitting to and fro building nests. Soft rivers of cloud veiled the warm blue of the sky here and there, not blocking the Sun. 

Frodo unwrapped the cake and he and Sam ate it together, crumbling off pieces with their hands and passing the milk back and forth, drinking right from the bottle. When they finished, Frodo lay back in the grass, his head pillowed on a tussock, and Sam curled up near him, sighing in contentment. 

"Thank you for luring me out of there, Sam. You've saved me from wasting a dreary morning indoors, never realizing how lovely it is outside today." Frodo turned half-over and smiled at him, and Sam was reminded once again how neither Frodo nor Bilbo ever talked down to him like they thought him a foolish child, or as though his family was worth less than theirs. He blushed, smiling back, and lowered his eyes. Picking a few crumbs off the linen towel, he put them in his mouth and then lay back on the grass, staring up into the powder-blue sky. 

"That one looks like a dragon," he pointed, and Frodo followed his finger. 

"It does, at that." Frodo sighed with contentment. "And that one is like a ship, sailing across the sky like an ocean." 

"And that one's an elf-castle. Can you see the tower?" 

They kept up the game until the rising Sun dazzled Sam's eyes, and afterward they lay blinking and drowsing in the warm light until Bilbo's voice floated up over the hill, calling them in to lunch.


	8. Friends and Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some friends are better than others.

The rains came before Sam finished planting the box of snapdragons and lobelias he planned to put in the window box outside Mr. Bilbo's bedroom at Bag End. It was still early in the season and the droplets were cold, so he picked up the planter, flowers and all, and took refuge in the tool shed. Kneeling inside, he could hear the fat raindrops whispering on its slate roof. Soft lemon yellow flowers nodded as he set the box down. His fingers and nails were stained dark, but he didn't mind; you had to get right down amongst the flowers to plant them proper. 

He knelt and took a pale blue lobelia out of its small pot and made a hole for it with his free hand, burying the clustered roots and squeezing soil back around them. Mr. Bilbo liked bright colors; yellow flowers were his favorite, and the pretty blue set off the yellow snapdragons like the sunshine in the sky, to Sam's thinking. 

A loud riffle of laughter and scampering feet warned him that he was about to be invaded; he moved over to one side right quick, even as the door swung open. Frodo darted inside, shaking silver droplets off his hair; four other hobbits of his own age followed him. Outside the rain settled in to fall in a steady curtain-- a good mild soaking rain, the best kind to have in early spring. 

"Hateful rain!" May Brandybuck spoke up sharp, shaking out her skirts. Sam looked at the other hobbits; there was Milo Proudfoot, Hugo Chubb, and Bungo Bracegirdle. Sam ducked his head respectfully toward them, though the gesture didn't seem to earn any notice. They didn't pay him much mind, crowding into the shed like they thought the rain might make them melt. Sam made a quick snatch and rescued the last of his snapdragon pots from Bungo's careless feet. 

"Good morning, Sam." Frodo greeted him, breathless. 

"Morning, Mr. Frodo." 

"You'll have to go find someplace else to dabble in the dirt, Sam Gamgee! We've got important things to do!" May gave him a look that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins might have taught her. She was a bossy one, and that was a fact; it came from having so many younger brothers, seemingly. Sam didn't like her much. Bossy was one thing; kind was another, and while she had plenty of the first, she hadn't none of the last, at least not as far as Sam could tell. 

"Leave him alone; he's doing as he ought." Frodo rebuked her, and didn't pay no attention to the angry look she gave him after. 

Sam knelt down behind the flower box and went back to work, accepting Mr. Frodo's words as his right to be there. He nestled a snapdragon into the box, setting it with special care, though Frodo's eyes weren't on him to judge his skill. Frodo had more of a mind for his friends, especially May, who was pretending she hadn't been angry with him just a moment ago, and was sitting right close to him as the five settled down to wait out the rain. 

In spite of what she had to say about it, they didn't have no important things to do, by Sam's reckoning. At least if they did, they wouldn't do them with him about. They just sat and made talk about the grownups, and about such of their friends as wasn't with them, and laughed more than seemed called for according to the nature of the comments that were made. Sam eventually finished filling the window box and patted the dirt smooth, then stacked the used pots and stored them away on the shelf where they belonged near the back of the shed. 

"Keep your clumsy feet away from my dress!" May shrilled at him, and the lads tittered, again except for Frodo. 

"Begging your pardon, Miss May." Sam backed off politely, though his foot had been more than its own length from her frock. 

"He's not on your dress." Frodo frowned, watching Sam prepare to leave. "You ought to stay indoors till the rain stops, Sam." 

"I won't melt." Sam hefted the window box stoutly. He aimed a shoulder at the door, but Frodo scrambled up and pushed it open it for him. 

A damp, chilly gust eddied in their faces, and Frodo frowned out at the rain. "Don't you stay out in that any longer than you can help." 

"I won't, Mr. Frodo." Sam nodded and slipped past him, taking care not to brush against him and get his shirt dirty. 

"Good riddance!" May huffed. Her tone sweetened suddenly. "Now, Frodo, come back and sit by me, and we'll finally--" the door swung shut, muffling her words so that Sam couldn't make them out no longer. 

Sam trotted around the Hill to Mr. Bilbo's window and set the box up on its brackets. The rain would water in the roots nicely, he reckoned, and set them to grow. He wiped rain off his face with his sleeve, trying to avoid smearing his face with his dirty hand. 

"Samwise Gamgee, whatever are you doing out and about in the rain?" Bilbo appeared in the window; he sounded alarmed. "That's a pretty window box, but I don't work you as hard as that, my boy. Come inside and dry off and have some tea!" 

Sam was tempted, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the toolshed door open, and watched Frodo and his friends making a run for the door at Bag End. They raised a dreadful clamor as they tore inside, and Sam could hear it echoing down the long hall behind Mr. Bilbo. He took a step back, expecting immediate dismissal. 

"Don't let that lot trouble you, Sam." Bilbo's eyes were kind. "You're always welcome." 

"Thankee kindly, Mr. Bilbo, but my mother will be wanting me." Sam smiled at Bilbo, putting the best face on his disappointment that he could. 

"Well, you scamper on home then, and don't dawdle. You'll catch a chill." Bilbo leaned toward the window conspiratorially, dropping his voice to a whisper. "And you come back later this afternoon if you have a mind, Sam. I know for a fact May's mother wants her back home by three, and Frodo's asked me to read a tale about Beren One-Hand and the Nightingale to him and the lads." 

Sam brightened. "Thank you, sir!" He scampered, hardly feeling the pelting rain. He dearly loved to listen to Mr. Bilbo read poetry, and he knew for a fact that Frodo's friends didn't; likely they would make their own excuses to go as soon as May left. Sam often thought private-like that the lads came about for her sake more than Frodo's; they didn't often turn up or stay in places such as she wasn't. 

After the boys left to chase May's skirt-tail, Frodo would be needing his Sam about to soften the fact that they hadn't stayed. There was something about that which made him sadder on Frodo's account than he was on his own for the way they treated him, but as the Gaffer had said time and again, it wasn't his place to meddle in the business of his betters. 

Sam trotted down the hill in the rain, off towards home.


	9. Birthing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble arises in the Gamgee household.

The skies were winter-grey, and smoke settled over the Hill in low-rising spirals. Sam wandered along the hedgerow, not wanted inside his hobbit-hole; his mother was taken ill and he had sense enough to see he was in the way. A crow rose from the hedgerow with a hoarse croak and mournful rattle of wings. Sam kicked a stone after it, but it settled only a few yards away, turning a baleful yellow eye towards him. 

He stooped for another stone, but was interrupted by the clatter of a pony-trap. He slipped through a hole in the hedge and spotted his brother Hal sitting tense on the bench, lashing Pansy Burrowes' fat pony into a trot faster than she'd managed for many a year. They pulled up outside No. 3 and Hal jumped off, giving Pansy his hand. They vanished inside, leaving the pony to stand in its harness, lathered and blowing. 

Sam dropped his stone and trotted down to care for the neglected animal. The Gamgees had no stable, but Sam had tended hired stock with Hal and Ham, and he knew what to do. He didn't have nothing better to do, so he might as well do what little he could to make things right. Chirruping to the pony, he tore himself a double handful of dry grass and started to rub her down. He couldn't reach all the way to the top of her back, but he did the best he could without undoing her harness-- there wasn't no telling whether she'd be needed again right off. 

"That's a good lad, Sam." The Gaffer eased open the squeaking front door and came out, leaning to rip up some more grass and lending a hand with the spots Sam couldn't reach. He looked gray and worn, his face sagging. Sam stared at him, his heart in his mouth and all his questions in his eyes. The Gaffer looked away. 

They worked for several minutes in silence. Sam could feel his father eyeing him up and down, trying to make his decision. He could almost hear his heart every time it beat, curiously dull and heavy like it was wrapped up in wool. Finally the Gaffer licked his dry lips and spoke. "Bell's took bad." 

Sam nodded, biting his lip; he'd figured as much, seeing how Hal treated the poor pony. "Can Pansy help?" he asked, anxious. 

"I can't tell 'ee, Sam." The Gaffer sighed, resting both callused hands against the pony's withers. "Pansy's a good midwife, but Bell's past her best years for child-bearin'. It's took her hard, and no mistake." He didn't meet Sam's anxious eyes. 

Sam dropped his own gaze, lifting the pony's hoof to scrub her fetlock. There was a terrible, piercing cry from within and the Gaffer dropped his grass, vanishing inside before Sam could speak. 

"Mama?" Sam stood, mouth working silently, his grass dropping from his fingers, forgotten. Another shriek split the still air. He couldn't bear it-- shoving his fingers into his ears, Sam ran.


	10. Passing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam goes missing in a time of great trouble.

"Quiet, lad." Bilbo nudged Frodo as they neared Bagshot Row. "That's Pansy Burrowes's cart at Number Three. It'll be Bell, I expect." He looked sober, and Frodo caught his mood, slowing his steps. Pansy's pony still stood in its harness, looking about half-tended, and Frodo was old enough to know that didn't bode well. 

A forlorn, despairing wail from the house made him flinch, and made Bilbo's jaw set. "That's not her, that isn't." He laid his hand on Frodo's shoulder. Another sobbing cry followed it, and another, then it was joined by a second. 

"Then who--" 

"The little lasses. Frodo." Bilbo shook his head slowly. "It sounds like Marigold... and Daisy." His voice trailed away and Frodo swallowed hard. 

Sam's mother. He knew how that felt, and none better. 

"Let's go up the Hill, lad. There's nothing we can do for now." 

Frodo watched dust puff between his toes as they trudged on without speaking; once they were inside the hole Bilbo led him to the kitchen and set about making them something warm to drink-- with a good dollop of honey, and another of apple brandy, to settle their nerves. 

Frodo took off his coat and curled up with a book he'd been reading, sipping at the strong drink; it would have made him drowsy but for the ache in his heart. He couldn't concentrate on the words; his mind kept bringing up images of Bell Gamgee, her loving smile for Sam and her more respectful one for Frodo-- the soft crumbly sweet cakes she had often made that Frodo had tasted when Sam offered to share, and the pies and bread she used to bake for Bilbo. 

The tap at the door was unexpected and quiet in an urgent way. Bilbo looked up, but Frodo was quicker. He didn't mind getting up from his reading to wander to the door, not quite knowing what to expect and dreading the unknown possibilities. 

Gaffer Gamgee stood outside. His eyes were red and his weskit rumpled; he looked at Frodo imploringly. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Baggins, but you ain't seen my Sam, have you?" 

Frodo bit his lip and shook his head; the Gaffer's eyes gleamed too bright and his hands shook. "I seen him earlier outside the smial, but then I went in, hearing a cry, and I ain't seen hide nor hair of him since. My Bell, she's passed, and the babe--" one tear escaped, and he didn't go on, wringing his hands and staring at the step. 

Bilbo hastened up to the door. "We'll raise the town and find him. You go back home; your girls need you. Don't spare another worry for Sam." Bilbo headed right out the door without pausing to settle his coat, one hand falling on the Gaffer's shoulder. "Frodo, you go straight to the Shirriff-House. And tell them where the lad likes to hide away; you're with him enough to know it." 

Frodo chafed at the order-- he could find Sam himself, he reckoned, most likely in his favorite spot near the reading tree. But when he departed from the path, the woods were silent and empty, so he went ahead to the Shirriff-House as Bilbo bid him. 

There were two there, and they set out, barely listening to Frodo's suggestions, so he went to check them himself-- the mossy nook next to the boulder where the mill-race started just up the water from Sandyman's mill, the bottom of the gardens where rosebush and blackberry arched over and made a tunnel just fit for a hobbit lad to hide in, the roots of the old tree over Bag End, inside the cold, chilly spring-house, beside the well, and on the top of the crow-shy rock, where boys stood with stones to run the birds off the fields after planting. 

He wasn't anywhere to be found, and that was that-- Frodo wondered if he'd gotten on the road and just started walking. He even went to the Gamgees' gate and tried to sort out the tracks he found there, but they were muddled with prints, the Gaffer's and his own and Bilbo's, and the hoofprints of the pony, which had finally drawn Pansy away. 

He heard another cry as he lingered-- Marigold, inconsolable. 

Bilbo peered out the window and saw Frodo lingering at the gate; in a few moments emerged from the hole. "They're laying her out now, and we'll be burying her at the foot of the garden." It was the Baggins's own burying-ground, and no finer honor could he give; Frodo nodded quietly, approving. 

"Did you find the boy?" 

"Not yet. Half of Hobbiton's out calling, and the other half's cooking for the family." Frodo trudged up the Hill at Bilbo's side-- it was the fourth or fifth time in the evening. His voice was hoarse from calling Sam and he was out of places to look. 

"If Sam doesn't want to be found, he won't be. He's a stubborn lad, and if someone doesn't stumble on him, he'll just have to come out when he's ready," Frodo murmured. He hadn't been that much older than Sam was, and he'd run when his mam and his da died; he'd run half the way to Tuckborough and hidden between the roots of a tree, half-in and half-out of an abandoned badger brock's hole. A Took cousin had found him there, wet through and shivering, with no tears left to cry and half an acre of tear- and rain-streaked mud on his face. 

"Frodo-lad." Bilbo's soft voice meant he'd seen Frodo's memories in his eyes. "Don't fret yourself. They'll turn him up." 

Frodo nodded soberly. He reached and picked up his cold mug of brandy and honey in water. "He's getting old enough to climb the trees in the wood; I didn't think to check them. I'll go get my winter cloak and a lantern." 

Bilbo just nodded, watching him with brooding eyes as he put his mug with the stack of dirty dishes to wait for washing and took a candle, then padded back into his room. He'd need a thick weskit and old breeches for climbing, and his wool-- 

Frodo stopped short, the flame of his candle fluttering wildly; he'd nearly tripped over the small bundle that lay curled up on his hearth rug like a puppy. 

"Bilbo!" He backpedaled and called softly down the hall. "He's here." 

Bilbo's chair creaked and he pattered down the hall to look over Frodo's shoulder. "So he is. And probably cold right through; you haven't had a fire lit in here all day. Wrap him up on the bed, Frodo lad, then we'll go tell his Gaffer." 

Frodo put down the candle and went on one knee, trying to figure the best way to lift Sam; he finally slid his arms around the lad's shoulders and tugged, working one under his legs. Sam was nearly too big to lift anymore, but he clung to Frodo like a babe. His eyes were swollen and his nose red from weeping. 

Bilbo pulled back the covers and bustled to light the fire while Frodo attempted to unwrap himself from Sam and put him down on the pillow, but Sam's hands were knotted in Frodo's weskit and all he succeeded in doing was transferring one to his hair. 

"Uncle, I'm trapped," he admitted after a moment. "He won't let go." 

"Don't wake him-- grief in the morning is still going to come sooner than it's wanted. I'll go tell Hamfast he's all right, and have word sent for the searchers to go home." 

Frodo nodded and pried Sam's hand out of his hair; Sam's arm wrapped around his neck instead and Frodo let it, lowering himself next to the lad and pulling up the blanket awkwardly with one hand. 

He settled, letting his arm wrap around Samwise, who finally stirred. 

"My mam," Sam's voice was thick with sleep and tears. "She's dead, ain't she." 

"I'm sorry, Sam," Frodo held him tight. 

"And the babe too, I reckon. Mam said--" Sam sobbed once, burying his face against Frodo's shoulder, his whole body shaking. 

"Hush," Frodo breathed. "Hush," and he sang Sam to sleep.


	11. Watering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and the Gaffer each make a startling discovery about Sam.

Sam rose, balancing two heavy buckets from the well on the yoke over his shoulders, and carried them into the garden, setting them down and pouring their contents slowly into the center of the little dam of earth he'd piled around the roots of each rosebush to help keep them from drying out in the heat of summer. 

It was a hot day, and the summer had been one of the hottest he could remember. He pulled his shirt out from where he'd tucked the tail of it over his belt, and used it to mop his face before lifting the second bucket and pouring it out onto the thirsty ground. Then onto his shoulders again went the polished wooden yoke, and he headed back to the well, where he turned the windlass briskly, winching up the heavy buckets, and repeated the trip. 

A curtain flickered when he went by one of the windows, he thought, but he didn't see nobody behind it, and he watered the bleeding hearts next. Their lacy foliage looked wilted even in the shade. Sam stood up, working his shoulders, and stared into the sky. 

A few fat puffy white clouds towered tall in the brassy, hot air, but they weren't to be counted on, even if Sam could hear an occasional growl of thunder in the far distance. Thundershowers weren't much good; you couldn't count on one to come and even if it did, it was likely to drop only a little rain, but that usually came hard enough to batter down the flowers. 

He shouldered his yoke again and went back to the well. It was losing the shade of the oak that towered tall over it, and winching up the water made him sweat so that the handle was slippery in his hand. He almost fumbled it, but caught it at the last minute, and dragged the water up the rest of the way with his left hand, using the bucket handle. 

He'd spilled half the bucket, though, and he'd have to draw a full one-- it wasn't worth his trip to carry a half-bucket in one side of the yoke, but he didn't want to waste what he'd winched up, so he tipped the bucket and drank from the stream of clear water that spilled out, letting the rest pour down onto his chest. It felt so good he upended the rest over his head, and it trickled down his neck and ears. He shook his head, sending droplets flying everywhere. 

"Hey!" 

"Sorry, Mr. Frodo!" He'd materialized out of nowhere and was standing behind Sam, wiping drops of water off his face. His hair looked limp and his white shirt was sweaty, stuck to his chest under his suspenders; it must be near as hot inside Bag End as it was outside. 

Frodo shook his head. "No, it's all right, Sam." He stood where he was, seeming oddly uncomfortable. "You shouldn't work so hard in such heat," he commented at last. 

"The plants won't wait for water when they need it." Sam smiled at him and let the bucket hang at the end of its rope; he let the windlass uncurl until it splashed deep inside the well. "I've only got a few more beds to water anyhow; the others will wait till tomorrow." 

He started winching again, expecting Frodo to trot back inside, but he didn't. "You oughtn't to stay out in the hot sun, you not being used to it and all. You'll have a headache." 

Frodo nodded, but didn't move; he seemed strangely distracted. Sam poured water into one of his buckets and winched up another, then loaded his yoke and settled it onto his shoulders again. 

"You've been working all morning and half the afternoon, and you only took a moment to have a bite," Frodo shook his head, following as Sam trotted back down the road and let himself into the lower garden. 

"When there's a job to be done, there's no sense letting it wait." His Gaffer's words came off his own lips without thought. "The longer you wait, the harder it is to finish. If I left this to tomorrow, I'd have to water the whole garden all at once." Now it was Sam's turn to feel uncomfortable; Frodo was acting strangely, following him so close and being so solicitous. 

The sky growled again, oppressive and threatening. Sam poured his buckets slowly along a two long parallel rows of bee-balm plants, walking between them as he poured; they liked wet ground and they were always thirsty. When he turned at the end of the row, Frodo's eyes were on him, but not on his face, and Sam blinked. "Mr. Frodo?" Suddenly he felt quite a bit hotter than the humid air accounted for. 

"Don't stay out too long after that thunder gets closer. I saw a fork of lightning just now." Frodo spoke abruptly and turned away. "You can come in and wait for the storm to pass if you need." He set out up the hill briskly. 

Looking after him, Sam saw his Gaffer trudging up the road. He gave Frodo a polite nod and touched his cap, letting Frodo pass through the gate before he entered the garden himself and made his way down to Sam. He paused, looking back uphill, watching as Frodo vanished inside and the round green door swung shut behind him. 

"For shame, Samwise Gamgee!" The Gaffer glared at him pointedly. "You ought to keep your shirt on in front of your betters!" He snatched it out of Sam's belt and tossed it at him. "Show some respect, lad!" 

"But Dad, it was hot, and he wasn't out here when I took it off." Sam shouldered into his shirt obediently, flinching away from the hot itchy feel of the cloth on his skin. 

"I saw him staring at you like the young ruffian you're turning into." The Gaffer huffed. "Mr. Frodo isn't some buxom lass you can tempt with that broad back you've grown!" He thumped the center of Sam's chest with his walking stick. It hurt. 

Shocked, Sam nearly dropped the buckets he'd just picked up. "I wasn't doing no such thing!" 

"I'll have you out in the hay with Hal and Ham and I'll tend this garden myself, if you give me more of your sauce!" 

Sam took a deep breath. "Sorry, Dad. I won't take it off no more if you don't like it, but I didn't mean to do wrong." He lifted his chin stubbornly and finished doing up the buttons. 

The Gaffer studied his face with narrowed eyes, then sighed, his shoulders drooping. "Look here, Sam. You've always set too much store by Mr. Frodo, and now he's seeing you're not just a lad anymore, if you take my meaning. And there's others that are seeing it too, and 'ee have to expect it now. There won't be no more running around like a child, not knowing whether its diaper's on or not. 'Ee have to act respectable-like and keep in mind you've growed up, Sam." 

Sam crimsoned, agonized with embarrassment. "Yes sir." He shouldered the yoke, and felt the seams of his shirt strain to contain his shoulders-- the Gaffer was right, though he hadn't thought much about it. Maybe he ought to start. 

"Now see to them nasturtiums, Sam, and I'll help 'ee finish the watering. There's a storm blowing up and we need to get indoors." 

The Gaffer went for extra buckets and carried them on either end of his walking stick, and together he and Sam made short work of the rest of the garden. Sam kept half an eye on the windows now, and saw a curtain flick once, but not again. He wondered secretly what Frodo thought of him having put the shirt back on, then ducked his head, not wanting his thought to show in his eyes, where the Gaffer might see. 

By the time they finished, black clouds were massing and moving near, and the thunder was closer, shuddering through the valley with a force that rattled the glass window panes at Bag End as they piled up their buckets and left them. 

Sam didn't dare cast a wistful glance at the door when he remembered his invitation, but followed his father down the hill, the first cold fat droplets of rain pattering down on his head, heralds of the coming storm.


	12. Haying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bees in the hay make for a bittersweet afternoon.

The swish of scythes mowing through ripe tall grass made a drowsy sound in the afternoon, a staggered rhythm echoed over and over throughout the hayfields of the Shire. Sam swung his blade rhythmically, keeping an eye out for bees' nests; you never know when you might mow over one, and he'd had a few stings already. 

The heat was stifling-- hot, choking air hung around him like thick water, but he didn't take off his shirt, not even though the other lads in the field already had hung theirs over the fencerow. Not after what the Gaffer said, even though his own brothers Hal and Ham had come home for the haying and they weren't wearing theirs, no more than any of the village boys. 

Sam finished his row and started back on another; Hal caught him up just as he headed back down the hillside. "Sam, why don't 'ee take your shirt off? 'Ee must be sweltered." 

"No bees can sting me through it." He tried to put the best face on his situation. 

"That's no reason." Hal chuckled. 

"The Gaffer's not wanting me to, so I won't." Sam answered, a little bit shortly. 

"But whyever not?" Hal paused, wiping his face and squinting up at the Sun, which hung brassily over the Hill. "Does he think 'ee want to make a spectacle out of yourself before one of the lasses? Maybe that Rosie Cotton? She's a pretty one." Hal laughed, his own question answered in his mind, and got back to work. 

Sam sighed; his gaze flickered up the Hill, and what he saw there set him back to his mowing. Frodo was there, and seeing Sam glance up at him, he had changed his course and headed down into the field. Butterflies rose around him, and grasshoppers flitted across his path. From the corner of his eye, Sam saw him pick a brown-eyed yellow daisy as he came forward. 

He came to the fence and put one foot up, gazing out over the fresh-mown hay toward Sam. Sam kept mowing fiercely, watching the grass topple and slide over his blade. He tried not to let his swings go wild; the Gaffer had scolded him for that when he first started out doing this not more than two years ago, telling him that it wasted the grass if he swung too high, and if he swung too low and dug into the earth, it dulled the blade and risked breaking it on a stone. 

It wasn't fair that he had to keep his shirt on nohow; Mr. Frodo didn't think that way about him. If anyone knew that, it was Samwise himself-- he'd been tagging after Frodo's heels for many a year now, in the way more often than not till he accepted his lot and told himself he'd best be content with it. He reckoned he knew where he stood. 

That day last summer when he'd been drawing water didn't mean nothing; like as not he'd had some speck of dirt or a bug on him and Frodo was just looking at it. It was plain enough that he hadn't done no looking before nor in the year since, not at the likes of Sam Gamgee, though Sam had his own suspicions about who Frodo *was* looking at, and it wasn't just the lasses, neither. 

No, all the Gaffer had done with his well-meant words was to make Sam more aware of his own feelings, and how they wouldn't ever amount to nothing. He couldn't blame his father for wanting to spare him the pain of setting his cap for Frodo Baggins, seeing as how he didn't know it was already too late, seemingly. 

"Sam?" Frodo called to him, and Sam set down his mowing blade and went, wiping his face with his sleeve. 

"Yes sir?" He was painfully aware of how hard he was sweating; he must smell like he hadn't had no bath for a month, and his shirt was wet through, and stuck to his skin all over. He hung back further than he would have otherwise, hoping his scent wouldn't reach Frodo's nostrils. 

"When the field is finished, there are cakes and ale ready up at Bag End. Bilbo and I want to treat you all." Frodo's eyes flickered down to his shirt, and for a second Sam was terrified Frodo would ask him the same question Hal had; he didn't have any answer ready to hand. He plucked at it nervously, peeling it off his skin and feeling a breath of warm air puff down over his breast. 

"We'll be thankful of it, Mr. Frodo. Mowing's thirsty work." Sam noticed that Frodo's own top two buttons were open, and a sheen of sweat gleamed on his chest and face. He looked away. 

"You've been stung," Frodo sounded concerned. "Are there many bees in the hay?" 

"It's nothing," Sam felt the swollen place an inch or two below his eye. It hurt a little, but not much. Mainly because he was poking at it. "It's not dangerous unless they get you on your eyelid, Mr. Frodo." 

"Come here." Frodo reached out toward his face, and Sam glanced nervously towards where his father was still mowing, then went as he was bidden; Frodo's fingertip vanished into his mouth and then he brought it out again, wet, and wiped dirt off the sting. Sam's heart raced in his throat, and he was glad Frodo couldn't hear it. 

"If I had some pipe weed with me, I'd chew a poultice for that." Frodo frowned. "Bilbo says it draws the poison out of stings." 

"You don't need to trouble yourself, Mr. Frodo." Sam smiled at him-- Frodo might not care for him as he would have wanted, but he'd never been less than kind. 

A sudden sharp whistle drew Frodo's attention, and looking up Sam saw Merry Brandybuck waving from the road. "Frodo Baggins!" His Buckland accent was thick, and as always, it struck Sam odd-like upon first hearing. "Don't you have sense enough to stay in the shade on a day like this?" 

"No more sense than you, Merry Brandybuck!" Frodo laughed, and turned away up the hill. That quick, Sam was forgotten, and he went to take up his blade again. Merry was two years Sam's junior, but he was a Brandybuck, and he hadn't never held a scythe in his life, Sam judged. 

Sam didn't look as Merry and Frodo slung their arms around one another and trotted up the hill. He made himself whistle as he worked instead, and by the time he reached the end of the row, he very nearly meant it.


	13. Journeying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parental disobedience has both drawbacks and rewards.

Sam's Gaffer was scowling when Mr. Bilbo departed, and that was unusual; it set the whole family on edge. So when he called out, Sam answered him right sharp. 

"Coming, sir!" He presented himself, standing up straight. 

"Mr. Bilbo says Mr. Frodo has a mind to go tramping off across the Shire to Buckland to visit his cousins, and he wants you to go along with him, to carry such as he can't and do for him along the way, and Mr. Bilbo wants you to see to it that he don't come to harm away from help with nobody to watch after of him." The Gaffer's scowl didn't lighten, and he held Sam with piercing eyes. "I told him an older lad would do a good sight better, but he's got his mind set, has Mr. Frodo, and only you will do." 

Sam held his breath, startled. He'd never been as far as Buckland. 

"I had more than half a mind to say him no, Sam." The Gaffer shook his head. "But you're a sensible lad, and our Hal isn't here to go in your stead, so I said you might." 

"Yes, sir." Him, taking care of Mr. Frodo? Sam held back his smile of pride. "When must I go?" 

"In a fortnight." The Gaffer shook his head. "Mind that you get your chores worked out ahead of time!" 

"I will." Sam waited till his father's nod dismissed him, then hurried out to get started right away. He wouldn't let the Gaffer know it, but he was already planning the contents of his pack. 

When he got to Bag End later that day to start on his mowing, Frodo was sitting out on the stoop smoking in the quiet morning air; a smile broke on his face like the dawning Sun. "Are you looking forward to it, Sam?" 

"Yes sir!" Sam sat down next to him and took out his whetstone to sharpen the clipping shears. "I've never been out of doors overnight, Mr. Frodo." His eager words suddenly turned awkward, and he focused very intently on the shears. Overnight, out of doors in the woods, with Frodo... with nobody else around... he swallowed. No wonder his dad hadn't wanted him to go; and here he hadn't thought of it till he nearly stuck his own foot in his mouth in front of Frodo himself. Maybe the Gaffer wasn't so far wrong, thinking he was a wool-pated ninnyhammer. 

"I first camped out with Bilbo when he brought me from Buckland, and we've been a few times since." Frodo smiled at him. "It's fun, and I think you'll like it." The sweet scent of the smoke from his pipe clung about him, and his mouth closed lightly around the stem; Sam realized he was staring and tore his eyes away. 

"I'd best get started with the mowing," he stammered, and started working his way around the yard on his hands and knees, trimming the grass. 

The time before their trip passed in a blur of hard work and anticipation; he could hardly believe it had gone so quickly when the day dawned and found him on the road, dew dampening the dust and making it cling to his feet. His pack was heavy, but he hardly felt it as he went up the hill, his walking stick in hand, and found Frodo waiting for him at the gate. Frodo smiled at him and they set out, their walking sticks making soft thumps just a little out of step with one another as they headed down the hill. 

Some of the romance of carrying his home on his back like a turtle wore off after the first hour, but by then they were well beyond Hobbiton and into the settled countryside around it. Sam soon felt himself relax into the rhythm of walking. They didn't speak much, but Sam was occupied by his thoughts. 

Frodo seemed in no hurry, though he was certain of the way, and they stopped often, finding nice places to rest by the edge of the road. Once they caught a ride on a farmer's cart that caught them up, empty from a successful run to the Hobbiton market; it trundled several miles before the farmer reached his own land and bade them hop off so that he could turn in to the lane that led to his byre and the low brick house where he lived. They were in less settled country now, with most of the farms taking up many acres, dotted with the occasional curl of smoke rising from a hobbit-hole or little house, and with sheep cropping the grass in wide fenced pastures. 

Sam chewed an apple, trying not to steal glances at Frodo. He was remembering his Gaffer's advice and his admonitions to act right and not step outside his place. That last warning had brought up thoughts that the Gaffer would just as soon it hadn't, Sam knew, but they were there nonetheless. He couldn't root them out, seemingly. They'd sent tendrils down into his mind tougher than the ones dandelions and daisies sent into the ground, and he couldn't pull them out nohow. 

The problem with that was that the roots sent up leaves, as roots will, and then they made dreams that flowered fresh and vivid in his mind on a nightly basis. Those dreams never faded, and they replayed in Sam's mind regularly, sometimes even in the waking hours when they caused him considerable embarrassment. Sam never said a word to no one about them. 

"It's hot, isn't it." Frodo murmured at his elbow, yawning under the hot sun. He reached up and unfastened the first two buttons of his shirt, which was starting to show damp patches under his arms around the pack straps, and in the middle of his chest. 

Sam coloured; he put his eyes on the road ahead and left his shirt buttoned up. He could almost feel the throb of the bruise the Gaffer's walking stick had left on his breastbone the first and last time he'd dared not to wear it while he was working in Frodo's service. The remembered throb was a guilty reminder that he'd best not follow Frodo's example. 

"We ought to rest during this part of the day, and walk at night, after it cools down," Sam speculated. 

"You're right. There's a brook that runs through the belt of trees ahead, Sam. We'll stop when we get there, and wait till sunset before we go on." 

Sam nodded, hitching up his pack, and walked faster. 

The shade under the trees was welcome, and the rippling chatter of the brook sounded cool even before they sighted the water. Sam followed Frodo off the road and they waded through bracken and ferns for a time, until the road was out of sight behind them. The stream flattened into a wide, shallow pool not far into the wood, sparkling clear, with a sandy bottom. 

Sam slid his pack off and sighed, working his shoulders, looking up at the sighing canopy of birch leaves, moving lightly in a breeze that they had not felt on the road. 

The sound of splashing startled him a bit; Sam had never seen Frodo voluntarily set foot into water deeper or wider than a puddle, and he'd always thought it was because of him losing his parents the way he had. Sam himself had never done more than wade in the shallows of the Bywater pool or splash across a brook; not many hobbits had, at least not near Hobbiton. 

Frodo sighed. "The water feels good." 

Sam waded out behind him and took his pack, then carried it to shore and propped it against the tree trunk next to where he'd set his own. He straightened, easing his aching back with one hand, and half-turned to Frodo-- then froze. 

Frodo had followed him back onto dry land. His suspenders hung at his hips and his hands were busy at his chest, and as Sam watched, stunned, he peeled back the wings of his shirt, then tugged his arms out of the sleeves. 

"Take this for me, would you, Sam?" Frodo turned his face up to the leaves. There were red stripes on his shoulders from the straps of his pack. 

Sam managed to take the shirt and he hid his embarrassment behind rounded shoulders as he hung it from a green-tipped branch. 

"You can take yours off too, if you want. I guess the Gaffer must have told you not to, but he isn't here." Frodo's voice was light with mischief. "There's only me." 

Sam's heart gave a queer thud, then took off like a footrace. Frodo was right; a waggon rolled by on the road with a thudding of hooves and squeaking of springs, but Sam couldn't see it. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry, and he busied himself with the laborious process of finding his water bottle, opening it, wiping the neck, and taking a drink. 

More splashing alerted him that Frodo was moving, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape winging through the air to fall neatly over the thick end of a branch, near the trunk on the same bough where he'd hung Frodo's shirt. "That's better." Frodo sighed with satisfaction. 

Sam choked and nearly strangled; only the fiercest effort kept him from coughing and spraying his mouthful of water all over himself. There wasn't going to be no way that he could make up any excuse that would let him keep his back turned till nightfall, he realized. 

"Come on, Sam." More splashing behind him as Frodo waded deeper. "It's not deep enough to drown in, if you're afraid." A crisp splash warned him just before a rain of droplets pattered down on his head. Sam weighed the Gaffer's command versus Frodo's quiet invitation, considering also his fear of explaining to Frodo why he wouldn't take it off, if he refused... surely just the shirt wouldn't do no harm. It was making a fuss as would be the worst thing, letting Frodo know that something wasn't right. 

"Yes, sir." He tried to keep his voice sounding regular. There was a tight fluttering deep in his stomach, but his hands were moving on his buttons, and the air felt good on his skin-- it was hotter under these trees than he'd realized before. 

"The rest of it, too," Frodo prompted him, soft laughter in his voice. But Sam couldn't go no further towards standing here in just his skin; if he did, Frodo would see more than he bargained for. And yet, it was no more than boys did when they went wading off in a stream all hid away from sight; Sam knew that well enough, and if Frodo hadn't been about, he wouldn't have thought nothing of it. 

He hesitated, miserable. It was one thing to think of Frodo when he was alone in his bed of a night and there was nobody to see what such thoughts did to him. It was something else to let Frodo himself find out. "I will, but you turn around, Mr. Frodo, and let me get situated," he heard the bashful plea in his voice. 

"All right, Sam." More splashing footsteps, moving away down the stream. 

"My Gaffer would skin my hide," he muttered aloud, and risked a glance toward the stream-- Frodo was turned away; his body gleamed pale and slender and beautiful in the light, and he hadn't a stitch on. It put Sam in mind of the naiads in one of Mr. Bilbo's books, the river spirits that lured unwary travelers in and drownded them under the waters. 

Sam hurried, scrambling out of his breeches before Frodo could turn about, and splashed awkwardly into the water till it was deep enough to come up over his lap when he sat down, which he promptly did, folding his hands over himself to conceal the effects of what he'd seen. 

"It gets deeper out here." Frodo warned. "Don't come out too far if you wade. I know you can't swim." 

"I won't." Sam nearly yelped the words; the water was colder than he'd reckoned and it was a shock to the warm tender parts of himself such as were unaccustomed to wading. 

Frodo laughed. "It's cold, isn't it." 

It was, and the shock was enough to shrivel his stubborn flesh, for which Sam was grateful. He looked back up the stream toward the road, being careful not to turn his head as Frodo approached. 

"How much further to Bucklebury Ferry?" Sam mumbled, desperate for something to say. 

"We've come about a quarter of the way from Hobbiton," Frodo judged. "We should make it by midday two days from now, if we hurry along tonight. But there's no hurry." Frodo yawned. "If need be, we'll catch another ride on a farmer's waggon." He flipped up some water with his fingers, splashing lightly at Sam. "What's the matter? You look like Lobelia Sackville-Baggins has you by the ear, Sam, dragging you home to tell the Gaffer you need a thrashing." 

Sam winced. "If she could see us now, that's not the half of what she'd say, nor of what he'd do, neither!" He blurted the words, then reddened. 

"She ought to try this herself. It would do her good." Frodo scoffed. "And your Gaffer, too." 

The thought of Lobelia sitting here, bare to the skin but sitting under her umbrella scowling, made Sam laugh. Frodo chuckled along with him. 

"Stretch your leg out, Sam." Frodo asked, and Sam obeyed without pausing to wonder why, then blushed as Frodo shifted and lay down in the water with his head supported on Sam's thigh, looking up at the dazzle of sunlight through the leaves. "Ohhh, that feels good. That pack was starting to dig in and make furrows." 

Sam sat absolutely still for a time, losing the battle to keep his eyes on Frodo's face. Clear water flowed over Frodo's arms and chest, and his hair was caught by the current, waving gently. The ripple of the water, broken by his body, distorted the coral pink circles of his nipples. He smiled up at Sam, seeming unconscious of anything untoward. 

Sam's flesh chose that moment to begin its recovery from the chill, and he kept his left hand in place, his wrist trapping it against his other leg, well away from Frodo. 

"Mr. Frodo, we shouldn't ought to sit here like this. What if someone came by?" Sam mumbled. 

"They won't," Frodo whispered, looking straight up into his eyes. "But the water *is* cold." He sat up again, rivulets forming on his skin, and stretched. Sam stared helplessly, his mouth dry, as Frodo rose and stretched, wandering out toward the center of the stream. "These stones are slippery, Sam. If you come out, you'd best be--" Frodo wavered with a startled yelp, and went down in with thrashing limbs and a huge splash. 

Sam leaped up and sprang clumsily after him, his heart in his throat-- if his Gaffer would thrash him for taking off his clothes, he'd hate to think what would happen if he let harm come to Mr. Frodo. And that wouldn't be nothing compared to what he'd do to himself. 

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam kept splashing forward. He nearly fell himself, but kept coming, all modesty forgotten in his terror, the water up about his thighs now. 

Frodo was already lifting himself onto his knees, sputtering a little; he looked up at Sam ruefully, wringing wet, his hair plastered down. The water came up almost to his chest. "I'm fine, Sam. Now don't you fall!" 

Sam teetered as he stopped, his arms windmilling, but he managed to stay upright, reaching out to help Frodo up. "I thought you were drownded," he said stupidly. 

"Not yet, at any rate, just feeling very foolish." Frodo took his hands and they steadied each other as they moved away from the treacherous slippery rocks toward the sandy spit where they'd sat together. "But at least I'm not too hot anymore." 

"That's a fact." A cold hand of horror had squeezed Sam's heart when he saw Frodo vanish under the surface, and the sunlight hadn't thawed him yet. "Let's sit out on the bank for a bit, if you don't mind, Mr. Frodo." 

"There's soft moss under the trees," Frodo agreed, still holding Sam's hand as they stepped out of the water, and Sam could tell that he was shaken. He curled up on the moss without bothering to get his clothes, and after a moment's hesitation Sam joined him. He lay down on the soft green carpet and looked up into the leaves as he willed himself to calm. Frodo lay silent next to him. The sun danced brightly overhead, filtering through in a shifting haze of light that finally dazzled his eyes and sent him to sleep. 

When he awoke it was after nightfall; the air had grown cool and Frodo had curled against him for warmth, bare and sweet and warm against him, shivering just a little. He was still sleeping. Sam hesitated for a long moment, guiltily letting the feeling of having Frodo in his arms press itself deep into his skin, then gently withdrew when he felt longing begin to stir in him, heat slowly rising to glow through the tenderness. 

"Wake up, Mr. Frodo." He laid his hand on Frodo's shoulder. "The sun's gone down, and we'd best be journeying." Sam stood up and went to fetch his clothes for him.


	14. Cherry-Picking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temptation in the orchard and a hard lesson.

At harvest times the whole Shire paused, it seemed, until the fruit was in, or the hay, or whatever else might need gathering. Sam Gamgee was no exception, for all that the gardens around Bag End needed regular watering. He mostly did that of an evening, and let the weeding go till a pause came. 

It was a rhythm as familiar to him as breathing. First the strawberries came in, then the early apples, and then the hay-mow, and then the cherries and the blueberries, then more hay and garden vegetables and the fields of wheat and barley. There were days on end in the late spring and fall when he lived with the sweet-earth smell of apples, bushels of them stacked in his room and in every spare corner of the hole-- and even sometimes in the cellars at Bag End, until the cider-pressing could be done. 

And there were days like today, spent standing on a ladder and plucking fruit, funneling it into a pouch that he wore slung over his shoulder. Cherries today. The late cherry harvest-- not pie cherries, these. Eating cherries. Big dark ones blushed wine-red with the sun, that would stain fingers and lips and cloth. 

The lads had been fighting the birds over them for days, beating tin pans and shaking the trees, and their hard work had paid off in a rich harvest. 

He leaned, and the ladder shook a bit. "Steady there, Sam!" But that wasn't his Gaffer's voice; it was Mr. Frodo's. Sam glanced down and nearly lost his balance again, but Frodo's hands braced the ladder. Sam caught the bough and hung on; it wouldn't do to go falling on Mr. Frodo's head. 

"Come down for a bit. Your feet must ache," Frodo called. 

Sam obeyed; his pouch was bulging near-full and his feet did hurt, plus it made him dizzy-like looking down into Frodo's upturned face. 

Another lad took his abandoned ladder, and he stood to steady it, one purple-stained hand on the post. Mr. Frodo's smile was full of mischief, and there was a faint purple blush on his lower lip. Sam's head fairly swam, but not from dizziness no more-- from wanting to lick that soft dark shade and taste the sweet spice of cherries on Frodo's mouth. 

He looked down at the coarse orchard-grass between his toes, struck shy of a sudden. His Gaffer was right, and let that be a lesson to Sam Gamgee; he shouldn't ought to have gone traipsing about over the Shire with Frodo Baggins. Never mind that they'd not made it to Buckland as they planned, what with meeting Merry and Pippin in a waggon on the way. The damage was already done, by then. 

Sam shifted his feet, sore from the narrow round rungs, and flexed his toes, dislodging the tiny black beetle crawling over his left foot. He could feel old cherry stones underfoot, and new ones, but not any more vivid than he could feel his memory of Frodo Baggins's bare skin all pressed against him while Frodo slept in his arms. 

That memory lurked in wait for him now, no matter whether he was waking or sleeping. It burned brighter and hotter than any other memory he'd ever held dear. But in the manner of fire, it didn't just warm-- once out of control, it could sear and destroy, too, leaving him a husk of himself, gutted and empty and near despair from wanting more. 

Mr. Frodo had no idea of it, of course. Sam was sure that Frodo Baggins's memories of their afternoon swim troubled him little, and that moment, the two of them lying nestled on the mossy bank without a stitch on, troubled him not at all. For Sam had pulled back before Mr. Frodo ever awakened, and a good thing it was, too. 

"Why, Sam! Show me your tongue. I believe you haven't eaten a single cherry!" Frodo's hand came out and tipped Sam's chin up to study his mouth. Sam swallowed; Mr. Frodo's eyes were fixed on his mouth, and obeying the command of those bright eyes, Sam's tongue darted out nervously to wet his dry lips. 

"You haven't!" Frodo accused him merrily, and lifted his hand with a cherry dangling by the stem between his fingertips. It was a perfect one, fat and firm and shiny-dark. Sam's mouth watered at the sight of it. 

Frodo held it out towards Sam's face, and oh, he meant for Sam to take it with his mouth, but Sam couldn't do that. He could see his Gaffer watching out of the corner of his eye, and that meant not taking it with his fingers, neither. 

"Thank you, sir, but cherries and naught else to go with them make my stomach sour," Sam stammered. Frodo's brow creased and Sam blushed, knowing Frodo had seen him eat near his own weight in cherries when he was a younger lad. 

Frodo shrugged and tipped his head back as he lifted the cherry over his own mouth; his lips closed around it and pulled it from its stem. He didn't know the Gaffer was there, mayhap, or he didn't care. His white teeth broke the cherry's skin and the dark juice welled on his lips. 

Sam near choked, struggling not to shame himself, and wrenched his eyes away from Mr. Frodo to his Gaffer, who was near enough to have heard the exchange. Hamfast had a desperate, angry look the likes of which Sam hadn't never seen before on his old dad's face, and it scared him right to his toes, so that his fingers went white on the ladder. If his Gaffer cuffed him right in front of Mr. Frodo, he'd die of shame-- 

"Mr. Frodo." The Gaffer's voice was quiet, but still held a note of strain in it. "How are you biding?" He smoothed his face in the moment it took Frodo to turn. 

"Quite well, Master Hamfast." And Sam realized that spark of lingering anger in the Gaffer's eyes wasn't for him at all-- and to hear the cool in Mr. Frodo's voice, he knew it too, though perhaps the Gaffer might not hear such a fine-shaded tone as that, not knowing Mr. Frodo as well as Sam did. 

If Sam could have sunk right into the grassy earth, he would have done it. His sack needed emptying, so he fled to do it, watching the fruit pour forth into the half-filled bin. He took his time about emptying the sack so that whatever was going on underneath that tree would be done with by the time he had to go back. 

As the last few cherries tumbled a hand fell on his shoulder, and he knew the hard-callused weight of it: his Gaffer's. Hamfast's low voice was still shaded with anger. "You're not the only one who needs a reminder of his place now and then, seemingly." He squeezed Sam's arm. 

"He don't mean to tease." Sam heard the hoarseness in his own voice and cleared his throat. "He just don't think." 

"Then it's high time he started." Again, the Gaffer's voice was sharp, brittle with that unfamiliar anger, though pitched for Sam's ears alone. "I won't have him taunt you, Baggins or no!" 

Sam's throat shut tight and his eyes stung. Mr. Frodo wouldn't do that, surely. But... but he couldn't help remembering. Frodo's blue eyes darkening and gleaming as they lingered on Sam's chest. His finger soft on Sam's bee-stung cheek. His head pillowed on Sam's thigh. His slim, warm body with its silk-soft skin, stretched against Sam's and snuggled up tight. What was he doing, if not teasing Sam with what he couldn't have? 

There were too many answers to that, and at least half of them didn't bear thinking. 

"Trot off home now and help Marigold with the baking, lad." Hamfast's voice was gentle, almost warm. "You did right." 

Sam did as his Gaffer said. 

Maybe he had done right, at that. Maybe he had, but that didn't make it no easier.


	15. A Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam visits relatives and suffers the consequences of indiscretion.

Sam patted his hands in the well-trampled dust of the field and climbed his stepladder, then hauled on the rope, slipping his knot to hitch it tight... tight... tighter. "Heave on that end, An," he called, and pushed on the loop of the knot with all his strength as a few last turns of the thick-twisted weave slid through the knot and Sam looped the final hitch to secure the knot. It left the rope-walk stretched tight and quivering. He stepped down, satisfied. 

"That ought to do fine, Sam." Andy slapped his shoulder. "We don't have no sag with you around, and that's a fact." 

Sam managed a smile for his uncle, then went to test the height of the rope. A foot or so over his head-- just right. 

He looked up to the Sun and wiped his brow. It was the first really warm day of spring, and the heat was welcome. Soon there'd be cotton to plant and flaxseed to sow, and in no time he'd have been here a year. 

It looked to be a good day, though Sam judged he wasn't ready for it. There were already a few local lads clustered about, attracted by the raising of the rope, and by the time the Sun fell half a span, there would be more, and other folk with them, common folk and gentry alike. 

Sam wasn't quite sure whether people came to see his uncle's shows because they liked the antics, or if they were hoping the rope would break, but if they were hoping it would, they'd be sadly disappointed, for there wasn't no finer Roper nowhere in the Shire than Andwise Gamgee. There wouldn't be no knots come loose, neither, not if Sam tied them. 

He supposed it didn't matter. Whyever they came, many of them left with a stout span of rope in hand, and that satisfied Andy. 

"Come on, Sam. Let's get ourselves kitted out," Anson punched his shoulder. Sam cleared his throat, not liking the reminder. He didn't mind tying ropes or minding the ponies or keeping the field mowed close or hauling sawdust in a barrow to stiffen the mud when wet weather came, but he didn't like being part of the show. Anson could handle Mallow all by himself without help, but seeing as how Sam was an extra mouth to feed, he couldn't complain about what they set him to. 

He followed Anson into the barn and the little thatched lean-to they shared right up against the hay and fodder for the ponies. His kit lay waiting there, for all that he didn't like it-- worn green brocade in a shade that didn't bear thinking of, and a shade too tight, plus there wasn't enough of it. Now that spring had come, it was just breeches, and Sam spared a hard thought for what the Gaffer might not know about Sam's job with Andy the Roper. 

Not that his Gaffer would mind Sam parading around without a shirt in front of half the Shire, Sam supposed, just so long as Frodo Baggins wasn't about to see it. 

Anson stripped quickly, but didn't hurry into the matching trousers that lay on the straw where he made his bed. Sam looked away; sometimes nights in the lean-to could get chilly, and he'd slept snug with Anson many a time, but he wasn't interested in no more, for all that neither father nor son-- nor Gaffer too, seemingly-- would have minded. 

Not that he didn't like his cousin, for he did-- Anson was a stout lad. You could count on him in a pinch, and if he borrowed a bit of weed to go in his pipe or forgot his coin for a mug of ale, he paid it back the next day without failing. 

Sam laced up his breeches and sneaked a glance at Anson, who lazily did the same. 

"I'll ready the ponies." Sam went out and they whickered to him-- they liked him, ponies did, and he liked them. He kept an apple in his pocket for them as often as he could, and today was no exception. He drew it out and tore it in half, then held it out on his palms, flat under each whiskery muzzle. They lipped it up, leaving his hands wet. 

"That's it, lads." He replaced their plain work-harness with the ones for the show-- green again, with bright yellow trappings. Not a real saddle or bridle, of course-- Mallow didn't need those. 

Sam hadn't never seen nobody like Mallow before, and that was a fact. Whip-thin and wiry, she was so light she looked like she might float, and it was her as did the rope-walking. Anson, now-- he might not mind a tumble with Sam, but Mallow would mind it, and more than a little. She'd had her cap set for Anson since well before Sam ever set foot in Tighfield, and that was a fact. No matter that Anson didn't seem to notice, neither. 

Mallow walked in, wearing bright yellow breeches and a tight little yellow shirt instead of a proper frock, and that made Sam blush, so he kept his eyes turned to the ponies. 

"There's a fine crowd coming," she walked over and stroked Berry's muzzle. "I saw the Thain's son himself!" 

Sam raised his head, alarmed. "Master Peregrin Took?" 

"None other." She eyed Sam narrowly. "Do you know him?" 

"He used to spend quite a bit of time around Hobbiton." Sam picked up a curry-brush and attended to Spark's tail. "Was there anybody with him?" 

"Three," she took up the other brush and tended to Berry's mane. "All of them lads. One of them fat and one of them slim, and the other a proper hobbit." 

Sam's knuckles went white on the brush. Fredegar Bolger, Merry Brandybuck, and Frodo. Pippin's favourite friends, without a doubt. 

"I won't go out." Sam's voice sounded faint. "Mallow, you and An--" 

"What sort of foolishness is that?" She stared at Sam across Berry's back. "They're just lads, Sam, for all that Master Peregrin's--" 

"And those others? The Master of the Hall, your proper hobbit will be one day, and the slim one's to be the Master of Bag End up in Hobbiton." 

"And the fat one?" 

"Their cousin." Sam twitched hair out of the brush. "Fredegar Bolger, I'll warrant." He clucked to Spark, who lifted her foot for him to brush out her fetlock. 

She eyed Sam, shrewd. "I'm guessing one or more of them has summat to do with you being here, to look at you. You're red as a beet, Sam Gamgee." 

Sam felt his colour deepen. "Andy needed help, and my Da sent me," he lifted Spark's other hoof and brushed. 

"Which one's your sweetheart?" 

Sam dropped the brush, wincing as it hit his foot. "What gave you that fool idea?" 

She just laughed and traipsed out, leaving him to finish the job. 

Anson wandered out presently, as soon as she'd gone. "An," Sam stuck the brushes together and slipped out of the stall. "I'm not goin' out." He put them with the tack and squared his shoulders. "Not in this get-up." 

"Well, you've got to, Sam. We set the rope that tall a-purpose, so you and me could take Mallow down off it and put her on Berry, the way we practiced." Anson was unperturbed. 

"There's Hobbiton folk out there. My Gaffer would skin me, going about like this." 

"It looks well on you. Or off you, I should say." Anson laughed, not unkindly. "Sam, my da's not your Gaffer. Don't go worrying over naught." 

Oh, but he couldn't not worry, not when the last he'd seen of Mr. Frodo had been that long-ago morning under the cherry-tree. He still didn't know what had passed between Mr. Frodo and his da, but the Gaffer hadn't let no grass grow under his feet before he had Andy Roper down to visit and packed Sam off with him and all. 

That was near on nine months ago, and no sign yet that Sam might go back, for all that he missed his sisters and wasn't cut out for rope-making. Not that he'd minded picking and ginning the cotton, but twisting rough hemp made his hands raw and clumsy, and he'd spent the winter longing for his-- for Mr. Frodo's-- garden. 

By and by Berry and Spark were as ready as they'd ever be, and Anson fixed Sam with an exasperated stare as he hung back. "Come along, Sam. There's no helping it." He led the ponies out and Sam tagged along miserably, keeping Spark's haunches between him and the main part of the crowd, which always formed right next to the Road. 

The crowd had swelled thick; the fine weather had half of Tighfield up and doing, and the bright streamers Andy had made Sam string from wires between the trees had let them know that a show was in the making at the Roper's. Andy would sell a deal of rope today, and maybe give Sam and Anson a silver piece each to spend as they liked. 

Right now, Sam had more than half a mind to spend his on a shirt. 

Mallow bounced over and Anson gave her a hand up onto Berry's back-- Berry was the steadiest, and was Mallow's favourite of the two, though Sam was partial to Spark, with her energy and her lively step. 

The crowd was ranged in a rough circle about the fence that ringed the trees as made the walk, and Sam's walking right at Spark's flank didn't do him no good, for there stood Mr. Frodo amongst his friends, up under the eave of Andy's house where there was a bit of shade. Sam gnawed his lip and didn't look again; the noise of the crowd's pleasure at the onset of the show drowned out any exclamation that the four of them might have made upon spotting Sam. 

Mallow was scrambling up onto Berry's back to stand, her yellow kit shining in the sun; she'd added a short jacket, mayhap out of some sense of propriety for the gentry in the audience, in spite of her supposed indifference. Sam fumed but took his place by the pony, where he could catch her if she faltered. She didn't, hopping up on to the rope as light as you please and catching her balance with arms outstretched. 

Sam took the reins and led the ponies off to one side while Anson took his place next to Mallow at the rope. Sam's uncle was waiting, and he jumped up on a stump and bowed with a flourish to introduce her-- at least they hadn't told Sam off for that; he'd be stumbling over his own tongue, not bringing out grand talk. 

He dared a one-eyed peek over Berry's back, behind her neck where he might not get caught-- as he suspected, Pippin and Merry and Freddy were watching the show, but Frodo's face was turned straight towards Sam. 

Sam ducked behind Berry's neck and petted her; best that she not catch his nerves, for there was still the whole show to do yet and Mallow needed her steady. 

Mallow was a marvel, and the crowd gasped as she turned a handstand right on the rope-- she didn't hardly waver a bit, just righted herself and went on, hopping and jumping like she was on broad ground, not a slender bit of rope. A second peek showed that she'd captured Frodo's attention, at least for the moment, and Sam relaxed very slightly, patting Spark's withers. 

It took a bit for her to finish her routine-- with a couple of bobbles thrown in a-purpose, just to make the crowd gasp. Sam watched more than one scandalized lady stomp out-- probably offended by Mallow's legs, for it wasn't proper that a hobbit-lass should wear trousers, most especially not ones so tight as Mallow's. 

Mallow's glance towards Sam alerted him, and he pulled Berry forward, leaving Spark to stand at the edge of the circle, right up against the fence. Berry stopped three paces from the rope, patient, and let Sam go forwards. Anson joined him, standing a pace behind, and they lifted their hands-- and Mallow stepped off the rope right into Sam's palms, light as you please, and then on to Anson's, holding her arms high in a proud salute. He shuffled his feet about, turning her in a full circle as she greeted the crowd, then steadied her as she stepped lightly off his hands and on to Berry's back. 

Applause rippled, and Sam caught the motion of Frodo's hands from the corner of his eye. He turned his back resolutely and went to take Berry's halter, leading her forward under the rope. Mallow flipped easily over it and landed on Berry's haunches. The assembled hobbits gasped, too startled to call out, so Sam led the horse in a broad U, back under the rope again-- Mallow did a double flip this time, and a shout of applause greeted it. 

Andy beamed at Sam and Sam bowed his head, polite-like, then let go Berry's halter and took up his place next to Spark while Anson followed Berry about; he could run just a bit faster than Sam, and it was needed. Berry speeded up little by little, slowly moving through her gaits with Mallow balanced easy atop her. She stood first on both feet, then on one leg with the other extended, toes pointed daintily. Then a handstand as Berry moved faster, Anson holding her halter and running right along beside. 

Mallow scissored her legs, the signal for the next bit of the show, and Sam clucked to Spark, starting her out in a walk that would eventually bring them fully around the circle. Past Frodo, but at least Sam would be on the inside, and between the ponies. He caught up to Berry as she slowed, and brought Spark right up next to her, the two of them abreast. 

A moment to match their paces-- moving past the lads from Hobbiton, with Sam thankfully too busy to make eye contact. He had to keep the ponies steady, and it was difficult in such a tight circle, but Berry's legs were just a bit shorter than Spark's, and with her being on the inside now, that helped. 

An "ahh!" rang from the crowd and a shadow passed over his head-- cast by Mallow's back, arched like a cat's as she went from Berry to Spark, up in a handstand again, and then back to Berry and onto her feet. Then she did a handstand with one hand on each pony, making the hobbits gasp. Sam kept the ponies' heads and didn't look up, fretting just a bit-- he didn't like this, for all he knew that Anson was keeping up, ready to catch Mallow if she fell. 

Thrice more around, Mallow's tricks more extravagant each time, before Sam slowed the horses and carefully brought them about. Anson was waiting at Spark's side and Mallow was already starting to curve over to him, hands settling into his, and Sam quickly took his place as she pushed herself upright, reminding himself not to reach for her feet as they came down. 

Steady, steady-- her weight came onto him fast and his arms quivered, but he was ready, holding her while Anson went around to his back and she went over again-- body arcing as she went from hands to feet over and over, the two of them catching her each time and walking her right over to the stump where Andy still stood, beaming. One last trick, then, but this was the one Sam hated the most. 

This time when she came down Mallow settled her feet firmly in his hands and stood straight up. He waited for her to get set, and he took a deep breath-- and tightened his muscles, pushing her up. The crowd sighed, a whispering "Aaaah!" Sam quivered under the strain-- raising through the line of his shoulders was the hard part, and it was where he'd bobble it if he did, and no matter that Anson was ready to catch her, for Frodo was watching. 

This was why he didn't have no shirt, and he was smart enough to know it-- so the crowd could watch his muscles strain as he pushed her up to stand over his head. She stayed right steady, balancing and compensating for the rough spot; Sam felt sweat burst out all over him, and sucked air through his teeth. 

The crowd was silent, all the hobbits holding their breath, and his sibilant gasp pierced the air. It found a soft echo-- he heard its direction, but didn't-- couldn't-- let himself waver to look. 

Oh, but Anson could have done this-- a sight easier, and a sight better too, but Mallow needed him to give her the spring next, and that was one thing Sam hadn't learned how to judge proper yet. 

His shoulder twitched, and he took a half-step to compensate. Mallow swayed and the crowd gasped, leaning forward, but she settled again, and then she was there, standing firm on top of his raised arms, and he was set, feeling the blessed relief as she arced over with her hands going straight into Anson's, and Anson gave her the boost she needed and pushed her into the air-- to flip over just as quick as you please. She lit on her feet right on top of the stump next to Andy amidst a tumult of shouting and clapping. 

That was all Sam was required for; he'd just let Anson take the horses around for the applause. He ducked away across the field and hid in the barn, letting his back rest against it while he worked for his breath. He'd nearly dropped her, right in front of Mr. Frodo and all! 

Applause came in ragged waves from outside, washing over Sam in time to his trembling. He didn't know what was worse, the thought of Mallow getting hurt or Mr. Frodo seeing him let it happen. 

Sam made himself breathe. He'd have half an hour or so to himself now, he judged-- it would take time for the crowd to go, and Andy would keep Mallow and Anson busy fetching and measuring the ropes he sold. By that time maybe his legs would stop shaking and he could have a bit of a wash and get some proper clothes on, and if Mr. Frodo was still about, he'd be ready for it. 

He stepped forward, meaning to go straight to the lean-to for decent clothes, but a familiar voice stopped him, high against the dull muttering of the crowd. 

"I saw him nip in there!" 

Pippin Took's voice, that. 

Sam bolted for the ladder without letting himself think, and hauled himself up into the loft as fast as might be, squeezing out of sight between two stacks of hay. 

The barn door creaked, opening just enough to let a hobbit through, and Sam kept as quiet as he could as he settled. He slithered down to the floor, where wide cracks lay between the boards, and put his eye to a knothole. 

Frodo stepped in, looked about, and pushed the door shut behind him. 

Sam closed his eyes and lay absolutely still, wishing he'd burrowed into a stack instead of just hiding behind it. His heart hammered in his throat so loud he was sure Frodo could hear it. Oh, but he shouldn't have hid; he should have faced up to Frodo right off. Now it was too late to change his mind, not with any grace. 

"Sam?" Frodo stepped forward, squinting in the dim. "Are you there, Sam?" 

Sam didn't breathe, watching dust sift down between the boards over Frodo's head, sparkling golden in a shaft of light that came through the space above the doors. 

Frodo walked forward, peering into the stalls, passing straight under Sam, and poked his nose in to the lean-to briefly, then returned to the main room, frowning. The narrow beam of light caught in his hair and flashed briefly over his eyes. Frodo's hand caught a rung of the ladder; he looked up and Sam quailed, closing his eyes. 

"Sam, come down." Gentle, the voice that haunted his dreams. "I know you're up there, Sam. I can see the green of your breeches through the crack." 

Sam sighed, well and truly caught. He raised himself, scooting forward through the hay. He was gummy and sticky with dust and bits of grass now, and that was all he had to show for his foolishness. 

Frodo stepped back as he climbed down, feeling the strangest sense he'd been through this exact moment before. He stepped onto the hard-packed earth floor, turning to face Frodo, and lifted his chin. "Good afternoon, Mr. Frodo." 

"So this is where he sent you." Frodo's voice was tense. "I'm sorry, Sam." His eyes softened, though the line of his body stayed taut. 

"Mr. Frodo, no...." Sam's voice failed him. 

"No, it was my fault." Frodo's voice held steady. He reached out and picked a straw from Sam's hair, then stood twisting it between his fingers. "I shouldn't have teased you so." 

Sam couldn't hold his eyes open, not with everything he'd ever felt tearing through him like a windstorm. Ah, but it wasn't just Frodo. It was Sam, for Frodo could rouse Sam just by breathing, even living away in Hobbiton where Sam knew he bided, and no matter that Sam was miles away and hadn't seen him for months. Frodo's face had stayed near as fresh in his mind as it was now, standing right before him. 

"Do you mean to stop, then?" Hoarse, the voice from his throat, almost not his own. 

"I..." Frodo hesitated; Sam opened his eyes in spite of himself to see the look that came with that husky tone, in time to watch as Frodo's tongue flickered out to touch his lip, and his eyes sank, heavy, along Sam's face to his mouth. "Yes, I..." but his eyes were caught, and he couldn't seem to move them. "Yes. I will." He turned his face away with a visible effort. "And if you like, I'll see to it that you're allowed back home, where you belong." 

Sam exhaled, misery mingling with relief. "I'd take that kindly, Mr. Frodo. I'm not cut out for this acrobatic foolishness." 

Frodo opened his mouth, stopped himself, stopped himself again, and then spoke. "I thought you did a fine job of it." The words sounded strangely wooden. 

"Thank you, sir." Sam didn't know what else he might say. 

Frodo hesitated for a long moment. He looked at Sam, eyes troubled and thoughtful, until Sam believed he'd crawl right out of his own skin for wanting to kiss Frodo, but Frodo never moved, and Sam couldn't take that first step forward. He just couldn't. 

Finally Frodo swallowed, his jaw firming, and he turned and walked to the door. "I'll see you soon," he told Sam quietly, then slipped out, shutting the door behind him.


	16. A Bitter Bargain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home once more, Sam faces an adjusted relationship with his employers.

It was hard for Sam to believe he was back in Hobbiton, stepping out from Number Three Bagshot Row and looking forward to a morning's work in the gardens up at Bag End. He'd just returned the evening previous, under an overcast sky with no moon, and walking out his door to see all the places he loved best was a shock, like he hadn't really believed he was home till now, when it was all laid out before his eyes. 

His Gaffer stepped out behind him, and Sam warily made his gaze move down towards Bywater rather than up along the Hill. It wasn't hard to keep the smile on his face even looking away from Bag End; Sam loved Hobbiton and knew every nook and cranny, every root and twig, of the land hereabouts. 

"We'd best be getting up the Hill. Mr. Bilbo asked for 'ee special, Sam, and 'ee don't want to go disappointing him," Gaffer said sternly. There was wariness in him, too, and Sam didn't hope for a minute that he'd had the wool pulled far enough over his eyes by that request coming from Bilbo Baggins, and not Frodo. 

But Frodo had been right about the Gaffer's rheumatics; he was a fair bit more creaky than Sam remembered him, and he did need help about the place. So he'd called for Sam, and not five days after Mr. Frodo's promise, Sam found himself home to stay. 

He stepped forward and caught the handles of the tool-barrow, pushing it stoutly up the hill. He'd got new muscles in Tighfield, though at the expense of losing a few old ones, and he had a purse of silver for his work, too. All in all, it seemed to Sam things could have come out a bit worse than they did, though they hadn't quite come out the way he would have wanted. 

Mr. Bilbo was taking his morning tea on the bench in front of the smial with a book laid open next to him, the breeze fluttering its pages. "There you are, lad!" Bilbo beamed at Sam, standing and strolling down to the gate. 

"Here I am, sir," Sam met his eyes and couldn't resist hunting for some sign that Bilbo knew more than Sam would like about the arrangements that brought him home, but all he found there was welcome and kindness. 

"Gaffer, this lad is growing a fine young hobbit," Bilbo observed. "I'm surprised you let him out of your sight; you should have heard the lasses in the Dragon chattering last night about him coming home." 

Gaffer laughed and slapped Sam's shoulder; that was just the right note, seemingly. Sam blushed and ducked his head, but was secretly pleased with Bilbo's tact. "Well, they know what they're about, them lasses, especially little Rosie Cotton. She's been sweet on our Sam since the two of them could toddle." 

Sam shifted his feet; that was true enough, and he'd spent many an hour with Rosie as a young lad, especially before Frodo came. But not at all since she'd growed up-- somewhat strange happened to lasses when they got into their tweens; it was like the happy, daring Rosie he'd known had changed into some other creature, one who wouldn't lift her petticoats up and run in the grass with him, one who'd rather hold his hand than skip stones on the Water, one who didn't just think that laughing over a tall tale were enough, and seemed to want more when she looked into his eyes after. He weren't comfortable around her no more for the way she looked at him-- like Mallow had looked at Anson, and that was a fact. 

Gaffer was still chuckling to himself and chattering with Mr. Bilbo. "He'll make some lass a fine husband someday, as I told Daddy Twofoot just yesterday. He knows a right bit about gardening, though he ain't quite got my hand with taters," Gaffer answered. "But we're glad to have him back. I can't quite get down no more for the grass-trimming nor the weed pulling, but he can do that while I prune the hedge, and together we'll get the job done twice as quick as one!" 

"And twice as quick as five folk who aren't Gamgees," Bilbo commented politely. "Welcome home, Sam." 

"Thank you, sir." Sam hunted through the barrow for the shears; the yard was badly in need, and no wonder, if Gaffer couldn't get down no more. Sam felt bad about using his old dad's health as an excuse to get closer to Frodo, but it couldn't be helped. 

The grass smelled sharp and green as he crept about, cutting it-- not wanting to draw no notice, so to speak. Frodo often slept in of a morning, and maybe Sam could get done and be down in the part of the gardens below the Road before he got up. He hadn't no mind to get sent back to Tighfield if the Gaffer thought he might be flirting, and that was certain. 

Under Frodo's window now, not looking up, and past it. Green stains on his hands, and the soft scent of mould in his nose, somehow different here at Bag End than anywhere else in Middle Earth. Different and secret and alive. He heard a yawn through the open window and he didn't falter even when his heart squeezed up tight. 

Frodo's eyes gone dark, fixed on his mouth-- his lips parted, his voice low, hardly able to find the words for a promise he clearly didn't like to make-- 

Sam caught his lower lip savage between his teeth and kept his hands steady. Almost there, not much farther. Around the strip of green, beneath the bench. A breath in, and another out. 

Torture, this, not knowing how Frodo would treat him now, but he'd a thousand times rather be here than Tighfield. He'd best do his thinking on Frodo later, when Gaffer wasn't around to watch. But oh, that moment in the barn, now. That had told him something, and no mistake. 

Frodo had known what he was doing to Sam, for one thing. Known it and liked it and didn't want to quit. Not for nothing-- except, it seemed, to get Sam back again. 

Sam's hands almost trembled, so he put the shears down and wiped them on his breeches, taking a breath. He knew Frodo could hear him; at one time he'd have leaned out in just his nightshirt and called Sam a cheerful good morning, the open throat of the shirt hanging open to reveal the soft-shaded ridge of his collarbone and perhaps even.... No. There'd be no more of that, Sam would wager.

He picked his shears back up and kept on cutting stubbornly. No greeting came, just a few rustling sounds that receded as Sam kept going until he was back down at the Road. He was tiring somewhat, not used to this after so many months away, but that didn't matter. He'd be right as rain in a week or two. 

"That's a fine job, lad." Gaffer rattled through the barrow, looking for just the hoe he wanted-- a narrow one with a long tooth. "I can do a deal of the weeding with this, especially the vegetables, but you'll need to mind the tender flowering plants, lad, those as don't like their roots disturbed." 

"Yes, sir." Sam wiped the shears carefully so they wouldn't rust. He could hear Bilbo and Frodo talking and thumping about in the parlour; it was Mersday, and they'd likely head to market soon. 

With that in mind, Sam tucked himself up in the corner garden to start the weeding-- it was furthest from the door and not next to the Road, so it didn't look like he'd be trying to put himself in Mr. Frodo's way. And sure enough, before Sam was through the first flower-bed out they came, Bilbo clutching his walking stick and Frodo still with a slice of bread-and-butter in his hand. 

"Good morning, Gaffer." Frodo's voice was cool and brisk, but he hardly glanced towards Sam. "Sam." Offhand, his greeting, in a careless tone that cut Sam till he bled, for all he knew it had to be false. 

....Didn't it? 

Frodo's spine was straight as he walked down the Hill, and his laughter was light, and he never looked back. Like a new creature, this Frodo, as foreign to Sam as whatever Rose Cotton had turned into... only worse. 

He was shaking so hard he had to dig his fingers into the soft ground to still them. What would be the difference if Frodo cared, or if he didn't? What did it matter if he felt friendship or even a love in him for Sam, or only a lust, like he might have for any strong lad or pretty lass? There wasn't naught to be done about what Sam felt in neither case, not even if Frodo felt the same. 

Sam took a deep breath. Surely Mr. Frodo was fond of him, at the least. He wasn't able to doubt that, not even in the terror of his loss... but that didn't matter, neither. What, truly, did it matter how either of them felt, when now it seemed Frodo couldn't, or wouldn't, hardly speak to Sam, because they'd learned the hard way that it was out of place? 

In that moment Sam fully understood the bitterness his Gaffer had tried to spare him, but had only brought early, like a frost in Halimath. 

He bent his head over tears and went back to his weeding, wishing it were that easy to pull Frodo Baggins out of his heart, but he had roots tougher than daisies and dandelions put together, woven through everything Sam was for as long as he could remember. 

"Sam-lad." His dad spoke up at his shoulder, sober and not unkind. "When 'ee finish that weeding, why don't 'ee wash up and go about to see your friends? They've been missing 'ee, I expect." 

"All right, Dad," Sam managed, wiping his hands. Perhaps he would, or he might go sit for a time where his mam lay sleeping at the edge of the meadow under green leaves, with forget-me-nots scattered to bloom in the short grass.


	17. Vassal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam keeps to his place.

Sam Gamgee hadn't never been so removed from Frodo Baggins before. Not even when he was in Tighfield for the winter. Not ever, not since he met Mr. Frodo when he was just a lad so young he could hardly remember. 

Not that he was far away from Mr. Frodo, precisely. He was still living in his family's same cozy little hole in Bagshot Row. He still tended the gardens at Bag End too, weeding and trimming and planting... but ever since spring, it seemed that he could be in the same room with Mr. Frodo and not be nowhere near him at all. 

Take his morning, for instance. Mr. Frodo had come out early with his pipe and a book to sit on the bench in the front yard where Sam was working. There he still sat after two hours or more, a wisp of blue-grey smoke curling from his pipe to float on the breeze, with the toes of one foot tucked behind the ankle of the other and his slate-blue shirt open at his throat. He might as well be off in Rivendell for all of Sam, or maybe somewhere else Sam hadn't never seen and wouldn't never see, neither. 

And maybe this was the first time in weeks that Mr. Frodo had actually come near to Sam for longer than the moment it took to say him a quick "Good morning," but that didn't mean nothing had changed. Nothing about the easy, indifferent set of Frodo's body and his unwavering concentration as he read his book said that he'd ever looked at Sam Gamgee. Not with sparkling, mischievous interest plain in his face. Nor would you believe he'd ever had trouble moving his eyes from where they'd fixed themselves staring at Sam's mouth or his chest. Nothing about him said Sam had ever seen or touched him when he was all bare-skinned and lovely, nor ever might see him so again. 

Sam thought of his life before Tighfield like a dream now, a dream that Sam's own Gaffer had waked him from-- and Mr. Frodo, too. It was like he'd suddenly opened his eyes to find he'd gone from childhood to being of age overnight, with him not having had enough tweenage years and all. 

And Frodo? Sam reckoned Mr. Frodo had not known what he was doing to Sam, nor how the consequences would turn out. If he'd been thoughtless, then that was because he was innocent, not because he was cruel. Sam had been a friend but naught more, and Mr. Frodo's flirtation had meant little enough. 

It must have meant next to nothing to Mr. Frodo, for him to wake from the dream so easily-- for him to wake so much that he and Sam weren't even friends no more. 

Rich dark earth crumbled against Sam's trowel, sliding down about the roots of the marigold he was setting out. The foliage had a sharp green scent that filled his nostrils, pungent enough to creep into his chest past the knot of tears that choked his throat. 

He would not weep, not with Mr. Frodo so near, not even silently and hidden under the brim of the shapeless straw hat he wore to shade his eyes from the Sun. He'd made up his mind weeks ago that he was done with weeping. It might take him a while to reason things out in his head and even longer to make his stubborn heart pay him any mind, but that was all he had now: time, and plenty of it. 

His heart didn't make no sense, nohow. He'd never let himself think he might actually have Mr. Frodo, after all. Not till after their closeness had been taken away had Sam realized just how much of Mr. Frodo he'd had in the first place, seemingly. And now? He wouldn't lose what little he had left. If he spent the rest of his life on his knees in this garden, hearing no more than an occasional "Good morning, Sam" and spilling out his wasted love on the pansies and the crocuses, on the snowdrops and the daffodils, on the clematis whose tendrils he coaxed to grow into a tangled, lacy frame about Mr. Frodo's window.... 

If that was all he had left, at least he had something to show for the breaking of his heart. He'd be able to hold his head up knowing he gave Mr. Frodo good service, a garden that bloomed like none other in the Shire, and all the respect that was due him. 

"Hoy, Sam!" A cheerful call from the road lifted Sam's head-- and Mr. Frodo's. Tom and Jolly Cotton stood outside the gate, looking into the garden and waving to Sam. Mr. Frodo marked his place on the page with his fingertip. 

"Come in, lads, if you need to speak with him." 

Jolly unlatched the gate and gave Mr. Frodo a polite nod as he and his brother came in. "Thank you, sir." They kept quiet as they passed the bench, treading a bit lightly, and Sam watched them, a wrinkle creasing his brow. 

They walked soft and ginger, like they were afraid of bending a blade of grass in front of Frodo. Tom even took off his cap, what with him being the oldest of the two. He was just Sam's own age. They were both no better or worse than Sam was, and they were greeting Mr. Frodo right and proper, as befitted their station and his. 

The bitterness of it washed through Sam afresh. No wonder that his Gaffer didn't approve of how he'd been acting with Mr. Frodo-- once, Sam would have been as like as not to come from the Road and join Mr. Frodo on the bench without even asking if he was welcome to unlatch the gate, and spared no foolishness for pussy-footing through the garden or touching his cap or taking it off and holding it over his breast, neither. 

His Gaffer was right. He weren't no child no more, and it was time for him to learn to act proper. 

"Sam." Jolly kept his voice down, deferring to Mr. Frodo, who had resumed reading. "Won't you come down to our byre tonight? We'll be husking corn and shelling beans, and we'll be helping the girls to spread the beans to dry, and then when we're done we'll have a dance." 

"I don't know how to dance none, lads," Sam kept his voice down too. "But I reckon I can make shuck-dolls for the little ones." 

"Our Rose will show you how to dance... or I will." Sam had never noticed the dimple in Jolly's cheek, nor the shy light in his eyes neither, but with a sudden start of alarm he realized what was going on: Jolly was looking at Sam the way Sam used to look at Mr. Frodo! 

"I--" he became conscious of a strange pressure on him, like as if someone were watching. But when he sneaked a glance at Mr. Frodo, he was still staring down at the page, lips moving as if to form the words over his moving finger. 

"I'd like that," he heard himself say, sounding faintly hollow and almost defiant. "I'll certainly come." 

Tom clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll be looking forward to you, Sam." He and Jolly slipped past Mr. Frodo with polite nods and went off down the Road, Jolly not sparing Sam a final shy look and a sweet smile. 

Sam's breath came quick, but not from the warmth in Jolly's eyes; it was from the tight feeling of panic in his chest. This was it, then-- Sam's first step away from Mr. Frodo, taken right in his hearing, but his eyes didn't even show even a flicker of interest. 

There were only a dozen more plants to be set out, but if Sam stayed in this yard with Mr. Frodo for another minute, he'd spill out all the aching sorrow inside his chest. One way or another, it would come out: bitter words or bitter tears. If he planted another marigold with this weight of unhappiness bearing down his heart, it would wither and die inside a week, the soil of its planting salted with his tears. 

He gathered up his tools and the little clay pots that held the marigold seedlings, piling them all in his barrow. He desperately hoped Mr. Frodo wouldn't gainsay him, for he didn't feel equal to explaining himself for leaving half the afternoon's work undone. 

He could feel Mr. Frodo's eyes on him for certain now, and avoided them diligently as he trundled the barrow down towards the gate. 

"Have a good time, Sam." Soft and gentle, those words washed over him like a breeze soughing through birch-leaves. The sound drew his gaze to Mr. Frodo like metal to a lodestone. Mr. Frodo had lifted his eyes from his book and sat still on the bench, sunlight and wind playing lightly in his hair. 

"Yes sir," Sam's voice responded without his will's command. "Thank you, sir." Remembering his resolve, he lifted his hand, feeling as though he were moving through molasses. His fingers closed on the brim of his hat, and he tugged it off to lay it against his breast, dropping his gaze to the ground. 

A snap-- the book closing with considerable violence-- made him flinch. A glance up through his eyelashes showed Mr. Frodo standing now, with his book dangling from one hand and spots of high color rising to his cheeks. 

Sam froze, terrified of his master's anger, which was as plain to see as the Sun overhead, and as hot, by the looks of him. Sam drew a shaky breath, bracing himself for its onslaught, even as Mr. Frodo did the same-- 

"Frodo!" Bilbo's voice floated through the open window. "Come in for your tea!" The moment shattered as Frodo glanced aside to listen, the breath he'd drawn leaving him harmless-like, unladen with words. 

Sam seized his chance for escape. Jamming the battered hat back on to his head, he groped for the handles of the barrow and fled down the Hill. 

When he reached the tool-shed and finally dared to look back over his shoulder, Mr. Frodo had vanished inside.


	18. A Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam attends a dance at the Cotton farm.

Sam reached for a handful of tough green cornhusks and lined them up, smoothing them flat over his knee. Carefully he trimmed off the coarse bottoms with a set of shears, leaving them nice and smooth on the ends. 

He tied the husks together just a bit below the narrow ends and folded them back, arranging them with care, then tied them again, smiling at the round-eyed looks his clever working earned. "That's her head," he explained. "Now I'll fix arms for her." 

He let one of the little lasses hold the doll's head, her grubby fingers clumsy, while he rolled up one husk to use for the arms and tied its ends with string, to make crude hands. If he had a bit of wire he could make them bend, but this would have to be a straight-armed doll, for all he had was some string. 

He tucked the little roll underneath the tied head and then tied the husks again below the arms, making a waist for the doll. Two narrow strips over her shoulders criss-crossed for a pinny, and he tied that, then took another handful of husks and trimmed their ends for a skirt. Arranging them around the doll's body and getting them tied there took a bit of doing, but he managed it and evened out the few ragged edges with his shears. 

"Here she is. Let her dry out on the shelf for a week or two, then take her down and give her a name, and you can play with her this winter." Sam smiled as the little lass accepted the doll with reverent hands and then darted away, shrieking with pleasure. 

"You're next, lad," he started over and made another-- making it a pair of breeches out of narrow strips, and binding them into legs. He could make the dolls right quick; he'd had plenty of practice, starting out watching his older brother Ham when he was just a lad himself. 

"The little ones adore you." A voice at his shoulder startled him just a bit, and he looked up to find Rose Cotton standing there. "Where did you learn that?" 

"Gaffer taught Ham, and Ham taught me just so I'd not keep him so busy making ones for me all the while," Sam said gruffly, feeling a bit shy. 

"Can I learn too?" 

"It's not hard." Sam fidgeted with embarrassment, then scooted aside to let her sit and get at the pile of husks he'd gathered. "Get a handful of shucks. Not too many. That's right. You--" he continued, going slow and helping her as she needed it. Her doll was a bit awkward and uneven, but it looked well enough for a first try. She didn't have the strength in her hands to cut a lot of husks at once, so he did that for her. She was clever enough with the knots, though. 

He was already making another doll of his own just to show her how, and though she made him as nervous as he could remember ever being, what with her watching him so close, he couldn't resist showing out just a bit-- making the doll a better one than he'd made for the little ones, with a shorter ruffled apron out over her skirts like the one Rose herself wore. 

"That's lovely, Sam." She reached for the doll and he surrendered it, blushing too hard to look at her face. She set her own down on the floor and turned his over in her hands. "Can I have it?" Her voice were warm, and when he looked up... that were twice today he'd startled that look on someone's face, though neither face was the one he wanted. 

Sam flushed bright red and looked away again. "Of course." He scrambled to his feet and brushed straw off his breeches. A few of the lads were pulling out wooden flutes, and one a fiddle, as others moved crates and swept the floor clear of corn husks and uprooted bean-vines and curling bean-strings to ready it for dancing. Jolly was looking in Sam's direction, and he smiled when he saw Sam stand up. 

Sam swallowed hard. Both of them? Oh, but there'd be hard words in the Cotton household tonight for sure, if he didn't watch himself close! 

For the first time he had cause to be grateful for the lesson he'd learned from Frodo's example-- he'd know better than to be too friendly and wind up by teasing them. Even Rosie's doll was probably too much. Staying to dance with one or the other of them would be more than his hide was worth! 

Sam hung the shears back up where he'd found them and threaded his way through the tables of beans-- each with clean cloths laid on it, and the strung beans spread out still in their shells for drying. The barn door hinges were so well-oiled they didn't even creak when he slipped out. 

The Moon hung in the sky, gibbous and bright enough to cast shadows. Sam wandered out to the paddock, where a pair of ponies stood with their noses in feedbags, champing quietly. He climbed up the fence to sit on the top rail, his feet dangling. Away up the Hill, just visible, there were lights in the windows at Bag End, twinkling in the remote distance like golden stars. 

"Sam?" 

He nearly toppled into the paddock, clutching at the rail, avoiding a fall by no more than a hair. "You gave me a fright, Jolly Cotton!" Sam steadied himself with an effort. 

"Come back inside to the dance." Jolly hauled himself up the fence and settled himself near Sam's shoulder. 

Sam blinked, feeling owlish in the dark, and decided on honesty. "I don't want to cause no hard feelings, Jolly." 

"Rose will share, and so will I." He sounded rueful and amused. "We'd have to, now, wouldn't we?" 

Sam wasn't quite sure what he meant by that; it didn't sound as though they meant to share him just between themselves. He looked at Jolly, whose face was tilted to look up towards Bag End. 

Sam flushed, growing certain of Jolly's meaning. "It would be a share in something as isn't wanted." 

"Come along, Sam." Jolly's voice was soft, and he caught Sam's hand in his. "Take your eyes off the sky and look about yourself. It's past time you saw more than just what you can't have." Warm with promise, Jolly's voice made Sam shiver. 

Wanted. He'd not felt that way since Tighfield. And strangely enough it seemed he wasn't wanted just by one, but by two. Or maybe more; Jolly might be right. He'd never spared much time for looking about him while he was snared in Frodo's eyes. 

"I can't make no promises," he whispered. 

"Sam." Jolly's voice filled with gentle amusement. "It's a dance, not your wedding." He slid off the fence and landed stoutly on his feet, reaching up to steady Sam. 

Sam took a deep breath and slid down, catching Jolly's hands. Jolly steadied him, their faces close, his hard-callused hands holding Sam's, both of their hands stained with dirt, not ink. He could see Jolly's eyes in the moonlight, and though they were brown, they still smiled at him. 

Another shiver passed through Sam-- not the dreadful flame of desperate needing that seized him when he thought of Mr. Frodo's mouth, but a gentle warmth that threaded through him like coming home to the hearth after walking through bitter frost. 

"Let's go in," Jolly said once more, looking more than a bit wistful. 

"All right," Sam breathed and let himself be led, still clasping Jolly's hand.


	19. Jolly Cotton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jolly learns a secret.

Now, you listen to me straight away, for I won't have nobody calling me hard names without hearing a bit of what I've got to say, first. There's those as would say Jolly Cotton's been meddling where he hasn't got no business, but I say such as them ain't got no sense nohow. 

I say when you see somebody hurt, you help them, and what does it matter if it's going to do you a bit of good? If you care for them, you don't let no false modesty keep you back. You don't let them suffer. 

There's those as won't do that; there's those as would sit back and let a friend's heart break without lifting a finger to stop it. I ain't one of them, or maybe I ought to say I'm lucky enough that I don't have to be, and I'm right glad of it. 

Now, you may think I'm expecting a bit more than I ought. Well, I ain't. I ain't saying Sam Gamgee is mine, nor ever will be. I ain't saying nothing of the sort, seeing as how I'd maybe like a family one day, but that's a lot of years from now. For now, Sam's near the finest thing I've ever seen. 

Still, he ain't mine, and he ain't my sister's. And what's more, I'd wager a year's harvest that he won't never be, no matter what either of us might like. 

There ain't many of us around as don't know who Sam Gamgee belongs to in his heart of hearts, and that counts some as shouldn't. He can't make no secret of it from those as knows him well, not even now that he and I slip away together sometimes after a day's work to walk for a bit or maybe sit out under a tree, or even do just a bit more than sit. 

Sam's got love enough in him for any ten hobbits, with plenty left over and to spare, and he's got a sweet mouth, and he's lonely and longing just like any boy his age, even me. We don't do naught that would harm nobody, just tangle our hands and curl up close and maybe steal a kiss or two. 

But even then, there's times when his eyes go sober and his voice goes quiet and and he pulls back and won't do aught more than sit. And there's times when we pass by people on the Road or in the Market and he won't do so much as touch my hand. There's places that make his eyes go sad, and subjects his voice won't speak. There's days when I go hunting for him after he leaves off working the gardens and it takes me half the evening just to have a smile out of him. 

It's Himself as is the problem: that Brandybuck lad playing at being a Baggins. Himself, as I call him, not liking to risk that someone might carry my talk up the Hill if they heard his name. 

Himself turned Sam's head the very first day they met, and Sam just a young lad. I can even remember his wild tale of finding an Elf up on the Hill, and how we all laughed then. We laughed more later to learn it was just a hobbit he'd seen, though a hobbit not quite like no other. 

I wouldn't have been laughing, maybe, if I'd known what it'd do to Sam. For one thing, he went off and started to working years before he had to, and I reckon it was just so as he could spend more time up there where Himself lives. 

His Dad takes a right smart bit of pride in Sam starting out on making his way so early, but I can recall my own Dad grumbling. He said naught good would come of Gaffer Gamgee letting his boy grow up too soon, and he was right, seemingly. Sam ain't half the lad for mischief that none of the rest of us are, and whatever he does is always something useful-- even if it's just making cornhusk dolls, he don't waste a moment. Even if he's drinking a sup of ale, he's listening to what goes on about him. Even when he's letting himself have a bit of a kiss and cuddle, he's worrying about what might come of it later. 

As a result, while he don't lack for people who like him, he don't have no close friends, neither-- except me, and I've had to work at it. He had one close friend, I reckon, but Himself dried right up and it seems he won't give Sam the time of day now, like Himself realized what Sam was about, having stayed so near him for so long, and decided he didn't want no more part of it. 

It were like Sam weren't good enough no more after he come back from Tighfield. Every last one of us down at the Cotton's knew why Gaffer Gamgee sent his Sam off, and we thought we'd seen the end of him. But then he come back, on Mr. Bilbo's orders, and we had to watch him taking the snub. Himself cut Sam just as dead as he could and yet stay civil, no sorrow to it. 

At least, that's what I thought then, but I don't think so no more. 

Now, I'm not saying Sam didn't take no snub, because he did. He took a cruel hard snub, and no mistake. What I'm saying is I thought Himself didn't care no more and never cared to start with, but I've learned I was wrong-- as wrong as a snow in Afterlithe. 

Himself cares plenty more than he should, and not near enough. 

I started noticing things that didn't add up proper right around the time Tom and I asked Sam to come to that dance. We have one every year when we lay out the beans and the corn to dry for the winter. Sam's a good worker and all, and he can husk half again as much corn as any lad I've ever seen when he has a mind to, but we didn't ask him because of that. We asked him because I figured he was lonesome. 

Sam stays busy up the Hill gardening and all, so we had to find him there and ask him out in the yard, with Himself sitting right there listening in. And giving as pretty a show of paying no attention as I've ever seen, and as false, if I may make so bold. 

I didn't reckon Sam would say yes, not with Himself right there. Sam looked bad, all drawn up and miserable, and he kept glancing over all nervous-like to see what Himself thought about us inviting him the way we did. 

Himself kept reading just as quiet as could be, or at least Sam thought so. But I was standing on the other side of Sam from that bench, and I saw such as he didn't. I saw Himself look up and fix Sam with a look I couldn't fathom, then turn his head right back down again, smooth as a rose petal, when Sam's glance darted his way. 

That put me on my guard, as you might say; something about Himself weren't quite like it seemed, and maybe Sam didn't know naught about it. 

We didn't say no word about asking Himself to come down and dance; after all, it was mainly a bit of work, and it weren't our place to ask Himself to come and do such. I half-expected him to show up anyhow after I caught him in that look. He'd come a time or two before, and he'd never been unwelcome. That was one reason I went out after Sam so quick that night. 

But there wasn't nobody out in the night but Sam. I found him sitting up on the fence and looking like he wished to die. Seeing him like that, I told myself I'd been wrong. That look Himself gave hadn't meant nothing like I'd thought it might. He couldn't see Sam like this and keep quiet, not if he cared aught for Sam at all. 

I didn't think, that night, that mayhap Sam wasn't letting Himself see what I could see, but now I know he wasn't. Sam wasn't letting Himself see his misery no more than Himself was letting Sam catch him stealing looks. 

You know the story of that night, I reckon, how I got Sam to come down and go back in to the dance with me. I kept watch over Sam after that, while the summer faded away and the snows come, but there wasn't never enough from Himself to mention out loud. I'd usually see a glimpse of Himself at the window when I'd call on Sam in the garden, but it was his house, and he had every right to come and go as he liked. 

The most I ever saw was Himself at the market, and I could have sworn his eyes were on Sam. But then again, he might have been looking at the last of Mistress Whitfoot's summer squash and thinking whether he and Mr. Bilbo might like one for the table. 

Himself caught me watching that time, but I didn't say naught, and he didn't neither. He just tucked his coat a bit tighter and vanished into the Dragon, leaving Sam to puff a bit of mist out on a laugh without never knowing Himself was nowhere at hand. 

And then I went up, for I could, and I shared a bit of my pipe with Sam, and I got to breathe that laughter for myself, and it tasted fine. There wasn't naught inside the Green Dragon that could have been no finer, nor in Bag End, neither, for all they say the hill is tunneled like a honeycomb and stuffed full of gold and jools. 

I thought to myself that day, "Jolly Cotton, you can make Sam Gamgee laugh, and for all that he could, Himself don't never do it, nor even seem to want to, so he can go hang." I quit keeping myself back that day, and I quit thinking I'd no right to reach out and try to take up something as precious as Sam just because Himself might decide he wanted to change his mind someday. 

It took Sam till Yuletide before he'd kiss me. 

Rosie and I both nagged Sam's Gaffer something fierce, till he let Sam come down to have a Yule dinner with us. I don't think he minded Sam going, but he likes to kick up a bit of a fuss sometimes, does Gaffer Gamgee, just for the attention. 

We had a goose and mulled ale and some of the very corn and beans we'd shelled that summer evening when I first got Sam to dance. We ate till there wasn't no more left, then sat down with all the ale we wanted and told stories. A few flakes of snow brushed at the windows, not enough to amount to nothing, and we all shivered with pleasure while Sam told a tale of the Fell Winter that he'd heard read to him out of one of Mr. Bilbo's books. 

When everyone was worn out and gone to bed except me and Sam, I went walking out with him down the Road towards Number Three, like a lad might walk a lass home except we were both lads. He didn't complain none, just slid his arm into mine when I offered it and walked along quiet-like. 

I stopped him halfway down the Row, where that old chestnut tree hangs over the Road. The clouds were still spitting a bit of snow and the night lay thick all about, so it was dark-- the secretest place between the Gamgees' hole and Bywater lay under the chestnut tree that night, with no lamps about and no stars shining. A flake of snow touched Sam's face and I brushed it away with the hand that wasn't holding his. 

"Sam," I said, and then I didn't have no more to say, for I couldn't rightly explain why I suddenly felt so lonely. I knew he didn't need no explanation to understand that nohow, given the way he feels about Himself who lives at the top of the Hill. 

He turned his face to me and sighed, and I could feel the warm of it on my cheek. Without thinking none, I tugged at his hand and he came to me and then we were kissing, both of us as clumsy as you like, not never having done it before. We didn't know to use no tongues nor even how to move our lips proper, but we made a try at it, and he tasted as sweet and hot as my Gammer's dried-apple pie. 

That was the first time, and it weren't the last. We got a bit better at it, and I could almost think Sam liked it as much as I did, if I didn't know he might be thinking of someone he'd like just a bit more. Not that I'm complaining; I knew what I was in for from the start, and as I pointed out earlier, I didn't plan on forever and neither did he, I reckon. 

Sam was a shy one; he didn't like kissing or holding hands where nobody could see. I didn't figure that was due to Himself; it's just the way Sam is. He's worse with girls, too. He's so tongue-tied around Rosie she and I figured she'd never have no chance to bring him out of his shell none, and that's why she gave me the first shot at him-- that and us knowing he liked lads. 

"At least he can look you in the eye," she said to me, and I had to admit she had a point. 

So Sam and me kept this thing to ourselves, and met quiet-like, though pretty soon people started to figure Sam's new secret out when it showed up he was spending a bit of his time around me instead of going off to Bag End of a morning and not come home till after dark with his tools in a sack on his back or in his Gaffer's barrow. Now he'd come home at suppertime and meet me after. 

I knew Himself had noticed, and it hadn't took him long, neither. Right away he started giving me level looks whenever we met on the Road or when he saw me across the market square. I wasn't scared of Himself; I wasn't doing aught wrong, and he didn't seem the sort to come on rough. Not as slender as he was, built to lift a pen, where I spent my days working even heavier than Sam, hauling hay and shoveling stables and tending ponies, and even wrestling a plow when spring come. 

Spring has a right cheerful way of coming after a long winter, and it wakes up the blood-- not just for the beasts in the wood and in the byre, neither. Spring fever Dad called it, and he gave me a sly wink that year when he said so over the table. 

Spring fever caught Sam straight away, and I could tell it. He had his hands in the earth and he tended all the green things growing; he stayed out every warm day and listened to the birds and saw all of them and the animals making their nests and their burrows. He felt the sun baking into him and warming him up, and I could feel it stirring in him, because he'd never held me quite so tight before, not even to keep the cold away. 

Sometimes I thought he might stop hurting over Himself, if you gave him long enough. Years, I reckoned it might take, what with him working right there and not able to get away from Himself nohow. 

I meant to help him, so I gave him plenty else to think about. I'd let my hands wander just a bit, and I'd feel the muscle in his back or rub my hands up and down his arms, or hold him as close as I could and let him feel what he did to me, hoping all the while he'd venture a bit more. It took him a bit, but he warmed up gradual, and before too long he'd stroke my back with his hands or tuck his fingers into my belt while he kissed me. No lower-- that made him pull back all shy, his ears red, if he thought we might try such as that. 

So we didn't, though I spent enough sweet nights thinking of it. I tried not to wonder who he thought of in the small hours, but I couldn't help feeling sorrowful because I knew well enough that likely it wasn't never me. 

The day it happened started with us trying to plow up Gaffer Gamgee's bit of garden, and the ox didn't want to go. I was flapping the reins and Sam was tugging its halter and that ox was standing right there in the middle of the field with one row half-plowed, not going no farther. Gaffer heard the racket and come out with his braces hanging around his hips. 

"That garden's too wet to plow, lads!" he called to us. "You unhitch that ox and let him be. And take yourselves off somewhere quiet-like, out o' my hair." 

Sam stared at him when he said such; he always did. He never seemed to credit that his Gaffer might like the notion of us together. Me, I thought he wouldn't like it neither except it meant Sam weren't mooning about after Himself up on the Hill, but that's neither here nor there. 

We took ourselves off to the wood, laughing like little boys, and once we passed under the trees Sam reached out for my hand. He often did that when he felt fine, and I liked it when he did. 

The Bywater stream rambles through the Wood before it reaches the Mill and becomes the Water, and Sam liked to dabble his toes in it, though he didn't like to go no deeper. He were that shy, I never convinced him to take off his breeches and wade in with me. He said he didn't want to get drownded and he went all quiet, like maybe that made him think of Himself, whose parents drownded while he were just a lad. I didn't like seeing that look come over his face, so after the first few times, I hadn't never tried to get him to do it no more. 

On this day we splashed across the stream where it were wide and shallow, wetting the legs of our breeches, and when Sam tugged at me as we climbed up the bank, I got it in my mind to wrestle a bit. Just over the far bank, there's a rise that climbs up and then falls back down into a grassy dell. I tackled him when we got to the top, and we rolled down the other side, over and over, till we came to the bottom. 

What Sam lacked in muscle he made up for in pure stubborn determination; I could pin him down most every time, but he'd find a way to wriggle out if I gave him long enough. Me, I just liked straining against his strength-- tumbling about gave us an excuse to touch each other a lot more than we did otherwise. It soon had him laughing, all breathless and tousled, with grass and leaves tangled in his hair. 

After I'd put his shoulders to the grass three times in a row, I was laughing so hard, and enjoying the feel of him so much, that he pinned me on my back with both hands beside my head. I didn't plan on what happened next, but somehow his body sank between my legs, and something kindled in his eyes that I hadn't never seen before. His mouth fell open on a soft little sound and he lay just as still as a new fawn whose mother's gone and left it to wait in the bracken. 

I quit fighting him in that same breath, and we just stayed there as his eyes closed and he let himself feel how we pressed together. 

I don't know what power could have tore my eyes away from him in that moment, but something did, and I looked up to the top of the rise. 

There stood Himself, frozen just as still as us, staring down. 

I won't never forget the look on his face as Sam leaned in, his eyes shut tight with bliss, and took my mouth, not knowing. Face naked and raw and full of pain, Himself watched us, and I didn't know how long he might have stood there before I noticed him. I don't think he ever realized I'd seen, but I kept looking and as he watched his face pinched up tighter and tighter, collapsing with just as much anguish as I'd ever imagined Sam might have suffered, if not a good deal more. 

I realized I'd best be about kissing Sam before he figured summat was wrong, so I slid my hand up behind his neck and twined my fingers into his hair, and I pulled him down and opened my mouth for him. Sam kissed me deep and hard, hips shifting ever so slightly to rock against me with wanting. He slid his face away blind and made a little moan, mouthing down to my neck and taking the lobe of my ear in his teeth, which he hadn't never done before. 

I held his neck and answered that moan with a sigh, wanting him to keep his face buried; he couldn't look up. Not now. I wouldn't let him look up, not with Himself standing there, fit to ruin all the joy Sam and me had worked so hard to find! 

I watched Himself from the corner of my eye even as I lifted my body to meet the hesitant rocking of Sam's hips. Himself didn't look away; his whole frame shook with the strain of containing whatever he felt as his head fell towards his breast and his hands clenched to white-knuckled fists by the sides of his thighs. He had a bit more steel to him than I thought; he never uttered a sound or a sob that might have caught Sam's ear. When he looked up again he'd mastered that terrible pain and and caught hold of it by the reins, though his eyes were wild and lost as a wounded deer's. 

In a heartbeat he was gone, running like that very deer, and yet I never heard his feet thudding upon the moss or splashing through the brook. 

I understood at last. It weren't Mr. Bilbo who'd wanted Sam to come home from Tighfield, for all that he'd gone to the Gaffer and asked personal for him to be brought home. It were Mr. Frodo himself who'd wanted his Sam back, and I could tell now what he'd been made to promise in exchange for it, and I knew what keeping that terrible promise was costing him. 

Sam still lay in my arms, making soft sounds and pressing up against me. Maybe I could have had him that day, but I couldn't kiss him no more after seeing such a thing. I nuzzled up against his throat instead, and I turned him to his side, where I held him and soothed him like he needed it the way Himself probably did right about then. All I could think was how Sam had me to comfort him, but Himself didn't have nobody at all. 

Sam raised his head and looked at me a bit odd-like when I moved, then his face softened all tender, though his brow pinched with worry. "I didn't mean to--" 

"No, no..." I tried to reassure him, but I found myself on the edge of tears. "That's not it. I just took on a bit funny with the sun in my eyes and the birds singing and you in my arms and all," I told him, and I hugged him tight. He smiled a little bit crooked-like and touched his lips against mine, then snuggled up and closed his eyes and we just lay there, tangled together. 

We didn't leave there till after the Sun left the dell and the shade turned too chill for comfort. Sam had a look to him like singing, and he held on to my hand for a long time after we left the borders of the wood. I bit my lip out of guilt for not telling him what I'd seen, but I couldn't never tell him. 

I knew it wasn't my place.


	20. Like Breathing Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations are made for a birthday party.

Sam frowned at the plans he held in his hands, the sun shining off the parchment so bright it hurt his eyes. He wasn't no builder, but none of the others who were could read, so he'd been stuck with the job of reading the plans so the carpenters could raise up a temporary shelter for seating the Baggins family connexions under in case of rain, which was copied from a design Mr. Bilbo had found in a book. 

Sam had his own thoughts about how smart that might not be, but he kept them to himself. 

"We'll need twelve holes placed about three ells apart," he read, "And that being exact to match the lumber, mind. Maybe take eleven of them roofing boards and lay them out end to end, then we'll dig right where they meet up." He scratched his head. "Then twelve more holes for the back wall poles, exactly opposite the others, but less far apart than the length of these long posts here such as make the roof beams. They'll have to go over the top of each pair of poles. These plans say leave a good hand's width at the end of each roof beam to lap over on either end of the riser poles, Farmer Cotton." 

"Aye, Sam." Farmer Cotton measured the ends with his own hand and chalked marks, then went to chalk the other beams exactly even while others went to measure and make sure the holes were placed right. 

"Should we build right here?" Jolly frowned at Sam. "Or if not, where?" 

"Best set it up right here on the end of the field, away from the tree, then all else can go in a curve out to the hedge, and such else as we have can go on the other side of the tree or in between." Sam nodded satisfaction. There weren't to be no fireworks this year, so no need for making sure those as sat under the shelter could see a large width of the sky, but that would leave the shelter looking out over the Water anyhow, as pretty a view as the Party Field had to offer. 

Those as knew how to build were deciding on places for the holes using lengths of chalked string after a bewildering fashion to make everything line up just so, and when they fixed a spot, Sam took up one of the narrow post-digging shovels and started in to work. The soil was good, wet and rich, and he felt a satisfaction in the slice of the shovel and the strain of his arms. 

Jolly took up the other shovel and moved just ahead of Sam, stepping hard on the rim and pushing down into the dirt, and Sam stole a look at him, admiring how easy he made it seem. Jolly didn't mind none that it was Sam as did the reading, though it made Sam feel sad to see his friend look at the plans and lift his eyes without no spark of excitement and understanding-- and yet Jolly didn't have no wish for more. He'd turned down Sam's soft offer to teach, but not without a smile that made Sam shiver from the warmth in it. 

Sam walked forward, intent on the next hole, and Jolly's shoulder jostled him. "'Ware Himself," Jolly breathed, and Sam gave no flicker that aught had passed between them, but he felt his chest go tight with that familiar pain nonetheless. He went right to digging, pretending he'd no idea Mr. Frodo might be about. 

His shovel sliced into the turf with a low hiss and turned up brown cut earth, like gashing a wound in the field. The earth gave off a wet, secret scent like the flowerbed under Mr. Frodo's bed of a morning, a connection that was so intimate and useless it seemed shocking to make it here in public, surrounded about by half the able-bodied workers in the West Farthing. 

"I thought you might need help with the plans, but I see you don't," Frodo's voice carried to Sam's ears. 

"Aye, Mr. Frodo. Sam's been reading them for us," Farmer Cotton responded, polite. "And doing a tolerable job of it, seemingly." 

Sam didn't look up, stolidly pushing his shovel deep. Push and heave. An earthworm gleamed in the broken heap of dirt, wriggling, disturbed. The sun caught bright yellow in the blossom of a dandylion just to the right of the shovel's blade. 

"I'm sure he is. I'll find something else to do, and let him continue." Frodo spoke with pleasant determination, and Sam could picture Farmer Cotton's widening eyes. 

"Now, Mr. Frodo, we're obliged, I'm sure, but we've got it in hand," Farmer Cotton tried to soothe him, and Sam winced, knowing that tone wouldn't do no good. "Why don't you go off and tell my Lily where you'd be wanting those booths?" 

"They look perfectly fine where they are, to me." Frodo didn't budge an inch, by the sound of him, and Sam had to keep himself well in hand so as not to steal a glance. 

"Mr. Frodo, this is rough work." Farmer Cotton sounded both fatherly and apologetic; he split the difference right well, Sam thought. "It'd be more than my hide is worth if I let you linger and a board fell on your head." 

"There aren't any boards being lifted." Sam knew that stubborn note. Oh, yes. This was one argument Farmer Tolman Cotton was going to lose, or Sam was a dwarf. 

Jolly moved on to the next hole and Sam realized he'd been hesitating, so he pushed forward too and started in to dig. Spade and lift, sweat gathering between his shoulders. Spade and lift, and him the only lad in the field other than Mr. Frodo wearing a shirt in the heat of the day. Not even Jolly had his on. 

Sam was glad of the smothering hot, rough linen anyway; it felt like a shield, one he'd have given a lot to have the last time Mr. Frodo had seen him with no shirt on. 

"Well, if you'll stay a ways back," Farmer Cotton said, gruff. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo." He didn't sound happy. 

"I'll look after myself." Dry, Frodo's voice held more of an edge than Sam liked to hear. He winced, wiping his forehead, and looked at Jolly, who was still digging. Jolly was frowning and his shoulders looked tense. Was he listening to Mr. Frodo argue with his father? Sam would wager he was. He sighed. He'd have to look after Mr. Frodo himself, seemingly, and be sure no boards fell his way. 

Sam stole a glance without thinking, and saw Frodo standing by himself and Farmer Cotton stalking back to join the rest of the workers. Frodo looked down at one of the little hills of earth, then buried his toes in it, crumbling the tidy heap. He looked forlorn enough that he sent Sam's heart into his throat to choke him with sorrow. 

He hadn't looked right well lately, Mr. Frodo hadn't, like he might be sickening for something. Mayhap it would do him good to be out in the sun and the fresh air, not tucked up in Bag End where there wasn't no cheer. Sam might not have no right to say nothing about it, but he couldn't help noticing. 

Between him and Jolly both digging, the holes were finished right quick, and measured to be sure they were all the same depth, too. That left Sam to puzzle out the way the boards and posts went together. It didn't look too hard; it was a flat-topped shelter without no pitch nor ridgebeam, and all that was needed were the walls to hold up the canvas awning that waited in a roll to one side. 

"Let me and Jolly puzzle out the walls," Sam told Farmer Cotton, "And you take the others to help with staking the tents. When we get it figured out, it ought to go together and stand up quick." 

Surprisingly enough, Farmer Cotton nodded. "We'll leave you to it, then." He looked about. "See if you can keep Himself out of trouble," he added, too low for any ears but Sam's to catch. 

Sam went red to the ears. "That ain't a small request," he managed to answer, and Farmer Cotton roared laughter so loud that half the field looked up, Frodo included. 

"You're right, at that. Good luck with it." Farmer Cotton slapped Sam's shoulder and went off, still chortling. "Come on, lads. The ladies will need their canvases staked down, I reckon, while Sam ponders how this thing ought to go together." 

Sam knew without having to look that Mr. Frodo hadn't followed Farmer Cotton; he could read it in the way Jolly stood tense with his shoulders back. Giving up on pretending, he followed Jolly's look right to Mr. Frodo-- but Mr. Frodo weren't looking at Sam. He were looking at Jolly, and still had his chin lifted with that defiant tilt. 

Sam gulped; he didn't like that look one bit, for all that he couldn't figure what it meant. 

"Tell us which boards go where, Sam?" Frodo's voice was calm and quiet. "I think I can move a board without growing faint or being squashed to death." Again that edge sharpened his voice, fit to make Sam squirm. 

"Well, them longest ones are the uprights. There's twenty-four of them. And them others, there's two lengths. Twelve long ones and twenty-two short. We'll lay the longest poles out one next to each hole," Sam answered, half-breathless. "If I may ask it, sir, begging your pardon." He winced; he shouldn't ought to sound so much like a kicked dog. 

"You're in charge," Frodo responded simply and finally broke off staring at Jolly, who turned a look of helpless agitation on Sam that just made him squirm all the worse. 

Frodo immediately tackled one of the longest poles, for all it were too heavy for him, and Sam hastened to catch the trailing end. It'd be as much work or more with Mr. Frodo's help as it would without, for he and Jolly could each handle one of these by himself. 

He helped Frodo lay the pole out next to the hole, trying not to look at him; beside them Jolly did the same with a second. Frodo went for a third and Jolly beat Sam to its trailing end by a narrow margin. Sam took a deep breath and got his own, hoisting it to brace on his hip. Again and again they went to the pile, without no word spoke between them, till there weren't no more poles. 

Frodo was breathing hard from the unaccustomed labor, his thin linen shirt already soaked with sweat and his curls likewise. Sam could see the faint dark circle of his nipple where the shirt had plastered to him, and he ripped his eyes away only to meet Jolly's gaze; Jolly was watching him watch Mr. Frodo. 

Sam flushed hot with embarrassment; Jolly's mouth quirked just the smallest bit before he smoothed his face again and turned away. He stretched casual-like-- and Sam couldn't resist the chance to compare Jolly's gleaming sun-golden chest and its dusting of fur to Frodo's narrow shoulders and pale, smooth skin-- not visible now, but engraved in Sam's memory so deep he could call it up any time he shut his eyes. It was like setting mithril against gold. 

Sam glanced at Frodo-- and he was looking at Jolly too, mouth pinched stubborn-hard, eyes strangely flat as he watched Jolly take up a plank. 

Sam would have crept away if he could, crept away to think on this strange thing that was happening, crept away to avoid the tension brewing like a summer thunderhead piling up over the Blue Mountains before the hay could be gathered in. He couldn't. 

"Those short ones next, Jolly," he tried to make it a suggestion rather than an order, and went to the sack that lay up against the canvas roll for a hammer and nails. "Half of them are already laid out anyhow and just need moving. We'll put the walls together on the ground, then lift them up later." 

"That'll take more than the three of us." Jolly caught Sam's eye without Frodo in the line of sight and gave him a broad wink. It relaxed Sam a bit-- Jolly weren't mad nor hurt at catching Sam looking where he shouldn't, and that was something. 

"It'll take twelve," Sam agreed. "But it's better than climbing." 

"It's the right way," Jolly agreed, and his eyes softened at Sam. "I've seen it done so before." 

Sam bit his lip on a smile, touched by Jolly's firm faith in him. When he looked up Frodo's face was turned away. 

"We won't finish unless we begin," Frodo said, and bent to take two planks, dragging them away from the holes up towards the top of the poles. Sam sighed, shaking his head, and eyed Jolly, who caught his thought. Together they took up the rest of the planks and then moved the stack between them all at once. That made Mr. Frodo pinch his mouth again, but he didn't say aught, just laid one plank in place. 

"Like this, Sam?" He arranged the board evenly over the top of two of the posts and looked up, his eyes shivering through Sam as their gazes tangled for the first time in many days, and Sam had to swallow twice around his dry tongue before he could answer. 

"Yes, sir," he managed, hoarse. "Now you move your fingers away so I don't hit them, please sir." He put nails in his mouth and knelt, driving them slower than he might have, for his fingers threatened to shake and he didn't want to hit his own hand, neither. He made three solid blows per nail, and the square, sturdy nails bit deep into the wood. Frodo steadied the board again as they moved on, and Jolly helped place a second for Frodo to hold. 

Sam struggled to keep his breathing steady; Frodo was close enough that Sam could scent him. He could make out a hint of soap lingering from Frodo's bath, and not coarse lye soap neither. Plus good honest sweat, such as he'd never scented on Frodo before, heady with salt and musk. He could just lie down and drink it, lick it right off Frodo's throat-- 

"Ouch!" Sam dropped his hammer and shook his hand, trying to shake out the sting of his mashed thumb. 

Frodo's hands flew as though to catch his, then stopped short and pulled back, hesitant-like, and fell to his lap. Sam hardly paid any mind, his thumb hurt so-- that nail would turn black for certain. 

"Maybe I'd best take that hammer," Jolly's voice was almost strangled, and Sam spared a narrowed glare for him; he was choking back laughter. Jolly knelt down and snatched the hammer so quick Sam couldn't protest. 

"Mr. Frodo, if you'd hold that plank again, please?" Jolly moved on while Sam stuck his aching thumb in his mouth. It took Jolly two blows per nail, and he wasn't doing none of that shaking, neither. Jolly didn't let himself get all flustered by Mr. Frodo being near. Sam thought Frodo's eyes, so clear when they'd looked at Sam only a moment before, were like slate now as they followed the work. He must have been afraid Sam might have struck him by accident, with all his foolish clumsiness. 

Sam took over readying planks in Jolly's place, his face burning with embarrassment, and in a few moments they were done and moving to the back wall, where the planks hadn't been laid out yet. Sam's thumb settled into a steady aching throb that pulsed in time with his heart. It was hot, and he could hardly wait for a draught from the spring. He was wringing wet, worse even than Frodo, the waistband of his breeches dark with perspiration. 

He watched them work with half an eye as he readied the boards. They were like mithril and gold, both precious to him, and the former one completely out of his reckoning. 

Frodo sighed and flapped his collar against his throat for some air, a sight that made Sam decide he'd be best off studying his toes instead. So he did, in between handing over planks and worrying that Frodo might get splinters in his soft hands. He started turning the planks so the roughest side was down before he handed them over. 

After he'd done it twice, Sam caught Jolly eyeing him, and realized Jolly was watching him handle the boards to feel out splinters. He looked to be holding back a laugh again, his lips twitching. Sam went red for the second time in as many minutes. "Jolly Cotton, if you don't like how I'm giving you boards, you can give me back my hammer," he blurted, and Jolly couldn't help himself no more, seemingly-- his shoulders shook and he started to laugh helplessly. 

Mr. Frodo stared between the two of them, completely bewildered; it seemed he hadn't noticed neither Sam's care nor Jolly's humour. 

"Sam, them boards never bit nobody, and they ain't about to start," Jolly laughed. "But this hammer, now, it's right dangerous, seemingly." 

Frodo frowned at that, still apparently trying to work out the joke. 

"That it might be, if I get hold of it again. I might have to knock some sense into someone's head who seems to need it." Sam felt humour bubble up inside him, fey with tension, fit to start him laughing too. Keeping it back weren't made no easier by Frodo's expression, which showed him completely at sea. 

"Aye, your own!" Jolly gained control of himself with an effort, just as answering chuckles escaped from Sam himself, and he muffled them in his hand, struggling for enough control to answer Frodo's look, which was growing a bit impatient. 

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but Jolly's just having a bit of fun at my expense, like usual." Sam ducked his head, courteous. "He's a lout, and he don't know how to act near quality." 

Jolly's shoulders shook again with silent chuckles, but he kept them inside. 

"I've no idea what you're both laughing about," Frodo said, strangely low and intense, fixing Sam with an inscrutable stare. "But I do hope you don't mean you think you couldn't share a laugh with me, Sam." His shoulders were suddenly rising and falling too rapidly, too shallowly, and his cheeks might have been flushed with the sun, or it might have been something else. 

"No more I do," Sam backed down hastily. "That ain't what I meant, begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo." But that weren't right; he had meant it, in a way. "Only such a joke as this one might not be...." Frodo's eyes fair snapped at him, waiting, and he realized he was walking on a slender limb, indeed. "Very funny," he finished, lame. 

Jolly still appeared to be choking on his own tongue, and Sam scowled at him. "Which it ain't," he told Jolly, properly cross. 

"I'm right sorry, Sam." Jolly managed to calm himself, and there was apology mixed with merriment in his eyes, after. "Maybe I've had a bit too much o' the sun." 

"That's it, I'll warrant." Sam blew out the remains of his temper on a deep sigh, feeling a proper fool, and handed over the next board. 

They made quick work of the rest, with Frodo clearly watching Sam and trying to figure out what was odd about the way he supplied the boards, an alert attention that of course made Sam stop showing his care in arranging them. 

Finished at last, the three stood up to wipe their brows and surveyed the walls lying on the grass. 

"It's going to be a bit shaky till we can get it stood up and fill in the holes," Sam judged. "It might come apart, if it isn't lifted careful and the dirt filled in and packed down proper. I won't be satisfied it's safe for nobody to walk under till we have them roof beams nailed across every pair of poles to brace it, like." 

Jolly nodded agreement. "And maybe we should pile rocks around the poles, too." 

"I'll have to set some of the lads to fetch them when we've finished." Sam drew his sleeve across his forehead. 

"Hoy there, Dad!" Jolly called. "We're ready to raise it, I reckon." 

A shout answered, and they watched as Farmer Cotton gathered together a dozen or more lads, beckoning and calling them by name. "Hoy, Tom! We're going to lift the walls. Nibs, get over here, and you, Nick, and--" he gathered a dozen or more strong lads. Each came over and took his place by a pole. 

Sam's heart dropped to his toes as Frodo stoutly stood forward and took up a place by the pole nearest where he stood. Jolly looked to Sam sharp-like, and Sam nodded with a sigh, letting Nick take his own spot at one of the others. He'd have to supervise and try not to act like a fretting mother hen, even though he had no choice but to place himself at Frodo's back. 

Farmer Cotton gave Sam a sharp look too, close kin to Jolly's, and a sharper nod of his head, approving as Sam took a furtive step or two closer to Frodo. The wall would be heavy, and worse luck, Frodo was next to Nibs. Sam frowned himself, looking at Nibs, who stood on Frodo's right. He was five years Sam's junior, a bit younger than Sam liked to see doing such work as this. He was still young, not a tween yet, and he mightn't be proper steady in a pinch, for all as he had twice Frodo's strength, but Farmer Cotton had chose him out, and Sam hesitated to question the decision. 

"All right, lads." Sam said, lifting his voice to be heard. "We've got to raise this up smooth and even, and nobody'd better get ahead of himself, nor lag behind, or it'll all come apart. Lift it up on the grass and get it standing first, and we'll worry about putting it in the holes after." 

A ragged row of nods met his suggestion, and Sam took a breath, edging just a bit closer to Frodo in spite of himself. "Get your hands set." He watched Frodo's soft, pale hands work to slip under the boards they'd set. "Get the pole, Mr. Frodo," he murmured, and Frodo adjusted his grip to go under it instead. It made Sam think to check the others, too, and had to correct Nibs, as well. 

"On three, lift slow-like. We'll go just till you can settle it on your shoulders, then we'll pause and get a breath so we can push it up together." Sam returned to his place behind Frodo. "One... two... three!" 

Frodo's jaw clenched with strain as he tugged at the post, managing to start it moving with an effort, and Sam shook his head, distressed to watch him, but he couldn't help none. Frodo was managing, at least so far, and there weren't room for him to get in close to lend a hand, not without making Frodo drop what he held. "That's it," he lifted his voice so it wouldn't just be for Frodo. "Steady now." He bit his lip, watching Frodo tremble with strain-- he and Nibs were both lagging a bit. 

"Lift up in there, Nibs," Sam said, low. That helped to take a bit of the strain out of Frodo's load, and the wall rose to the level of a shoulder at a crouch. "Now get your shoulders under it," Sam urged, his voice perhaps a bit too sharp with worry. "Easy, like." The structure shook a bit as the hobbits shifted. Too late to think of it now, but he ought to have had somebody on the other side, to pull with ropes. 

Sam took another step forward, glancing up and down the row. "Ready?" There was some shuffling of feet and a few grunts of effort; Frodo was quivering under the weight. They couldn't delay long. "All right, lads-- nice and steady!" Sam felt his fists clench, and he could hardly breathe for watching Frodo's thighs tremble as he pushed up-- and then too much weight sagged on him from the right, and he gave a gasp, faltering. 

"Lift, Nibs!" Sam snapped, darting forward. The pole was rough in his hands, and then on his shoulder, as he settled his chest in behind Frodo's back and took part of the load. "Hold up, lads!" 

"I weren't set!" Nibs gasped. 

"Then you should have spoke up!" Sam snapped. "Have you got it now?" 

"I've got it now." Nibs sounded abashed and the weight eased, though Sam couldn't spare him a look. 

"All right," Sam called, struggling to keep his head, what with Mr. Frodo's hot, sweat-soaked back pressed tight up against his chest, and both of his arms all the way around Mr. Frodo's waist so he could clutch the pole with his hands to guide it. Frodo's breath was short, his lungs working hard and quick against Sam's chest. "Let's go again. Steady!" 

Even with Sam's shoulder set firm under the pole, Frodo didn't slip out and leave the job to him, lifting stubbornly, his wet hair leaving a trace of salt as it brushed over Sam's lips, he was so close to Sam's face. Frodo made a tiny sound of effort deep in his throat as they lifted again. The noise carried on his skin right through their shirts to Sam's, shivering through Sam's nerves like a dart of lightning. 

Sam tried not to think how they must look. If the Gaffer was about and saw this, he'd probably send Sam so far away Buckland would look like home! 

The wall went up this time, the rough bark of the thick pole sliding against Sam's hands and Frodo sliding against his chest, till the pole come up off their shoulders and the wall stood upright at last. Sam stood behind Frodo and realized he was shaking, he'd took such a fright. His arms were still curved around Frodo, and their four hands clutched side by side on the pole. Frodo turned his head towards Sam's face, still gasping for breath, making no effort to slip free of Sam's arms for all that he was caught between Sam's body and the pole. 

"Are you all right, Mr. Frodo?" Sam could hear sharp worry in his voice, and a husky note he hadn't intended. Frodo's body fit against him from shoulder to hip, like it was made to do such. 

"I think so." Breathless, the answer, with Frodo squirming slightly against Sam as though he were taking an inventory of all his limbs. "I may be a bit sore in the morning." 

"That'll be true enough. Sir." Sam felt dizzy as longing flushed through him. This was the way they used to talk, the way they used to be close whenever it seemed called for. Having a bit of it back again... felt better than Sam could ever remember, like spring sunlight and wrens singing so hard it seemed they might burst from joyfulness, but it still weren't right. 

Right or no, Sam could hardly bring himself to step away, but he reminded himself there was a pressing matter to attend. 

"Have you got it braced, sir?" He held on for just another moment, just to be sure. 

"Yes." Firm and soft, Frodo's voice sounded, and his breath blew warm against Sam's cheek. "Thank you, Sam." 

Sam let go at last and rounded on Nibs, scowling, suddenly furious with everyone he could think of: Frodo, himself, and especially Nibs. "Don't you go taking a job unless you can see it through proper, Nibs Cotton! I could have had that pole myself, and we'd not have risked Mr. Frodo nor the wall, neither!" He bit off his anger right quick, aware that Nibs' own father and half his kin were listening, not to mention Mr. Frodo himself. 

"Sam's right." Farmer Cotton backed him up, voice quiet but sharp. "Nibs, you may as well go off and dabble in the creek with the little ones, if you can't pay enough attention to hold up your end of a load, or if you can't admit it when a job's too big for you." 

"That goes for me too, I am afraid." Frodo's voice was calm and steady, accepting his fault and taking both Farmer Cotton's and Sam's sharp words to his own account. "I should have listened to you an hour ago." 

"You had your bit in hand till Nibs fumbled his, I reckon." The answer was kind, though Sam also reckoned it honest-- Mr. Frodo had been handling his share. "Still, it would ease my mind to see you step back and let us finish, Mr. Frodo." 

Frodo nodded, somehow not losing no dignity for all that he'd accepted he wasn't the best lad for the task. "Come along, Nibs, and let's wait till they settle the wall. Then we can help fill the holes," he suggested. Sam took his place at the pole when he stepped away. 

Sam stole a quick look at Jolly, who watched after Mr. Frodo for just a moment, then shook his head and turned back to his pole. "We need one more," Jolly said. "Hobson, can you come on over and set your shoulder to a pole for us?" 

This time the moving went smooth, though it weren't quite easy. True to his word Mr. Frodo took up a shovel and started filling the holes as soon as the wall was set and Nibs followed along with him, still looking a bit sheepish. Sam started kicking at the mound of dirt by his own feet, pushing it back into the hole and packing it with his heel. 

"We ought to haul up the next section with ropes, I reckon," Sam finally let go of the pole and went over to Farmer Cotton. "It'll take a bit of rope and some more lads, but that way if somebody loses his grip, there's something to keep the wall from falling." 

Farmer Cotton nodded. "That sounds a good idea." He stepped right close, face cheerful but eyes cautious, looking towards Frodo, who was busy several ells down with the shovel. "You thought quick, Sam, or we'd have lost this section, and maybe seen Mr. Frodo and Nibs hurt along with it." 

"I shouldn't ought to have ever let Himself put a shoulder to it," Sam fretted, adopting the term and hoping it wouldn't prick Mr. Frodo's ears the way his own name might. 

The farmer chuckled. "If you're thinking you could have stopped him, you'd best tell me how." 

"Tie him up and sit on him?" Nick tossed in as he passed by, and Sam swatted after him with exasperation for all it weren't a bad idea. Frodo was watching from the corner of his eye now, and no doubt he'd overheard, for he left his work and propped his spade against one of the uprights, putting his hands in his pockets. 

The way he held his body, like he'd lost a bit of pride, made Sam ache. There was a smudge of dirt and bark on the shoulder of his white linen shirt, and he was as sweaty as Sam had ever seen him-- and as lovely, cheeks flushed bright with sunlight and hard work, hair in damp ringlets all over. Sam didn't hardly know what to make of him, and that was a fact. 

"Nick's meaning no disrespect by that, sir," he settled for, stepping past Farmer Cotton to address the sober look on Frodo's face. "But see, such as us, we're used to rough work, and you're not. It'd be a pity if you'd been hurt on the eve of Mr. Bilbo's party." 

"Bilbo wouldn't want anyone hurt, and neither would I." Frodo wiped his brow with his sleeve. "No one more or less than any other." 

That last part wasn't so when it came to Frodo, and Sam knew it, yet he felt he'd be speaking out of place if he denied Frodo's word, so he put his eyes on his toes and didn't say naught. 

"I'm sorry I've been a bother." Frodo's voice was carefully light. "I'll stay out of the way from now on." His gaze moved, looking over Sam's shoulder, and he spoke again, courteous, with a polite nod of his head. "Good afternoon, Sam. Jolly. Farmer Cotton." He turned and walked away, neither hurrying nor dawdling, but looking like he had no apparent destination in mind. 

Sam didn't move, didn't look away from Frodo's receding back, for all that he knew Jolly hovered at his shoulder. 

"He's one as takes his pain like breathing air, I reckon," Jolly said, and there was in his voice both awe and pity. 

Sam weren't quite sure what Jolly meant, but there was another wall still to raise, and then he wanted to get a wash and spend some time thinking about this day on his own. Maybe after that he'd talk to Jolly and find out his thinking, but for now he was too tired and wrung-out from worry to pursue the matter.


	21. But in Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's subconscious mind struggles with his desire.

At first Sam weren't sure if he was sleeping or waking, the dream was so real. There was the Party Field, trampled all around about with pavilions and tents half-raised. Frodo was there and he was walking away from Sam-- only this time Sam followed, which told him right off he had to be dreaming. 

Still, it was all but real. There was the brown smudge on Frodo's white shirt, and the sweat in his curls, still a memory on Sam's lips. And in this dream, Sam cared for naught but to follow Frodo up the Hill to Bag End, where Frodo went inside and left the round green door to swing open. 

The smial was a warren inside, reminding him again this weren't real, and he didn't have no idea which tunnel Mr. Frodo might have vanished into. He picked the one he thought looked most like the real Bag End and ventured down, walking so quiet a stirring of air would have been louder than him and peering into the doors along the way. 

It weren't in the right place, but the third door he checked opened into the washroom, with a fire lit for all that it was summer, and there stood a copper washtub and kettles... and Frodo, waiting in the middle of the floor, his back to Sam. 

Sam watched, dry-mouthed, as Frodo reached to his shoulder and slipped away his brace, then pushed the cloth down to reveal a red patch already darkening for a bruise, where the pole had come down heavy on him when Nibs faltered. Sam sighed with distress, but he couldn't move his dream-feet none, not even to step up and put a bit of salve on the hurt. Frodo was still moving, his braces fallen to hang 'round his hips and his shirt sliding down to bare his whole back. 

Sam hadn't never watched Mr. Frodo take off no clothes, not even the time they went wading naked together, so his eyes locked to the slow, graceful cascade as the cloth fell. Frodo's skin gleamed with sweat, all the more for the flames dancing on the hearth. 

Frodo's shirt fell to the floor and pooled there, forgotten, as he reached to wet a cloth and bathe his bruised shoulder. Water droplets glistened on his skin, threading down to soak into his breeches at the waist and trickling down to his elbow, where they fell on to the floor, little plashes loud in the pure stillness of the room. It was baking hot from the fire, so hot Sam felt like his very blood might boil in his veins-- or maybe that come from the way Frodo sighed at the touch of the water on him, and the way it gleamed on his flesh. 

Sam could move now, somehow, drifting forward till he stood behind Frodo again. Frodo flickered before him like a white flame, burning him up. Sam reached out, drawn beyond will, palms shaping air around Frodo's ribs, not finding nothing to touch, or more likely not daring. 

Then Frodo looked up over his bruised shoulder towards Sam, and his lips parted. Very carefully he stepped backward into Sam's embrace, placed himself between Sam's arms, and settled his back against Sam's chest. Sam whimpered and his arms closed around Frodo, pulling him near, the moment thinning and slowing so he could feel every brush of his master settling against him, every rise and fall of the dream-Frodo's breath. He let his hands wander gently over Frodo's narrow chest, stroking sweat-slick skin with wide-spread fingers and open palms. 

Frodo sighed and his head tipped back, resting on Sam's shoulder. He tilted his face to the side so Sam could bury his mouth at Frodo's neck, licking up sweet salt with a thirst like drowning. Frodo gasped, a whispering breath, and Sam felt himself grow firm against Frodo's hips, which pressed back hungrily. 

He slid his hand down Frodo's chest-- bold, venturing right into his breeches-- and found a swelling there to answer his own, so he closed his fingers around it and stroked as Frodo writhed against him, sleek and sinuous and slick with sweat, hot as flame, his bruised shoulder under Sam's mouth. Sam kissed the darkened spot over and over again, like he could make it fade with naught more than love. 

Staring into the fire on the hearth, Sam dazzled his eyes and closed them, but still the flame-red light spilled through his eyelids as his hand worked and Frodo grew desperate in his arms, writhing and pushing himself into the clasp of Sam's hand. He was near coming; Sam could feel it in the taut surge of him, the way his breath caught and hitched against Sam's chest. 

"Oh, Sam!" A cry, and Sam blinked, confused but knowing himself awake sudden-like, feeling sticky wet warmth on his hand. Inside a heartbeat he knew the voice, but his eyes were still blind, for the Sun was pouring in across his face, and he held Jolly Cotton in his arms, the two of them curled up in a little half-hidden dell full of soft grass where they'd gone to rest a bit after finishing their work at the Party Field. 

Jolly turned his face and caught the corner of Sam's mouth, lazy-sweet. "Sam," he whispered, soft and deep, as Sam removed his hand to wipe it on the grass, trembling. "You ain't asleep, are you, Sam?" A thread of pain and wistful wonder lay almost hid under the sated purr of his voice. 

"No," Sam answered him faintly, and pressed a hesitant kiss on to Jolly's throat. He ached all over with frustrated needing, his arousal pressed tight against Jolly's hip. "I ain't." 

Jolly turned in his arms then, hand seeking shyly downward to return the gift of pleasure, and Sam found he didn't have the wish to say no. He let his head fall back, staring through his closed eyelids straight into the Sun.


	22. A Birthday Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam receives a gift from his master.

Overlithe might have been the longest summer festival in the Shire, but the Baggins Birthday was as eagerly anticipated for all that it only lasted a day and a night. It were a time when both the country hobbits and the gentlefolk could mingle and not do naught but eat and drink the whole time. It didn't mean that those who worked in the kitchen or kept the fields and tended the beasts could take the whole day off and do nothing. Still, the countryside hobbits let slide what would wait, and if they had less revelry in total, then they enjoyed what there was of it all the more. 

The day had dawned with the sky showing pink and orange, rosy dawn light gathering and fading in a number of puffy clouds that sailed over the blue throughout the day. Towards afternoon ominous thunderclouds began stacking up along the horizon, but they held off other than shading out the Sun a time or two with potent threat, and if a growl of thunder sounded now and again in the distance, or if a fork of lightning sent a flash to dance over the hobbits, then it made up for there not being no fireworks. 

Sam and Jolly spent the first part of the evening right in the middle of the dancing, faces flushed, ignoring the lasses for the most part except when the music forced them to separate and take a turn with someone else on their arms. They always come back to one another, after. Sam felt very strange and shy about being paired with Jolly like this where everyone could see. It seemed like anyone who looked would be able to tell the difference in how they were together. Like as not it was plain to read in them both, in the way they moved and touched one another with hands and eyes. 

Though the thought of Frodo still made Sam ache with yearning and sorrow, he found he couldn't regret nothing about what happened yesterday afternoon except not being completely honest about the way it got started. It had ended rather differently, with Jolly's name on his lips and no other thought in his head than Jolly's gentle, callused hand and his strong arms. 

For all Sam's shy misgivings about showing their closeness, Jolly's eyes were happy and his arms were strong and the Baggins family and all their connexions were off in their own part of the field having their special feast and listening to Bilbo's yearly speech. Over here the music was lively and the night was still young-- and there was plenty of food and ale for all, Bagginses or no. 

Sam was standing by the beer-barrel with Jolly when a wild round of shouting and applause went up from beside and beneath the family pavilion they'd put up with so much trouble the day before. Song broke out, signaling the end of Bilbo's speech. 

"They'll be about again in a moment, those as can still stand." Jolly chuckled. 

Sam had already picked out Frodo's dark head and swung his eyes away from it, feeling an odd dip and flutter in his stomach. Would Frodo see the change between him and Jolly, and what would he think of it if he did? Sam was halfway through his pour, and his wandering attention nearly made him spill good beer over Jolly's feet. Jolly caught the mug. "Steady there, Sam." Sam heard gentle tolerance in his voice, and amusement. 

Jolly took Sam's mug and led them away to one side, so that the whole of the dance lay between them and Mr. Frodo. "Himself ain't come out to many gathers for a year, maybe two," Jolly said just loud enough for Sam to hear him "I'd have thought he'd hole up when the dinner was done." 

Sam just shook his head, torn between pleasure and pain. 

"How are you biding, Sam?" His eyes were knowing. Sam swallowed hard, not looking at him. Regrets were one thing, but even though he liked what they'd done, he knew it wasn't proper. How could it be right for Sam to be dancing with Jolly and a lot more besides, knowing how he still felt about Mr. Frodo? That he'd grown to feel quite a bit for Jolly didn't make things right, for he knew the measure of his heart and it weren't fair to Jolly nohow. Frodo not wanting Sam didn't help him feel no better, neither. 

"I'm out o' breath." Sam knew he wasn't fooling Jolly Cotton. "And a fool besides." 

Jolly looked a bit long-faced at that, as well he might. "Sam..." he shook his head, frustrated. "Tonight ain't the best time, not with Himself and all his kin wandering about, but we've gone on too long without talking this out, I'm thinking. I want you to tell me what happened before Tighfield and after." 

"There ain't much to tell." Sam smiled, feeling the tightness of rue in his expression. The fiddles and flutes were loud enough to mask soft words, and for the moment the crowd held Frodo safely on the tree side of the square, with Jolly and Sam on the hedge end. 

He might as well speak out plain; Jolly deserved to know. "Well, you know something of why I went, I reckon. It was my Gaffer who made me; he was in a taking over Mr. Frodo and me. It used to be that Mr. Frodo would go..." Sam flushed. "Well, I don't rightly know how to say. Flirting, you might call it. With me." He felt himself heat up and knew he had to be red to the ears. "Mostly I thought the way he talked to me seemed no more than how he acted with his own cousins when they were about, happy-like and carefree, and I didn't think naught of it, for all it turned my head to see him smile." He took a deep swallow of his beer and continued. 

"But my Gaffer, now. I weren't no Took connexion nor no Brandybuck cousin, neither, and he didn't take to me being treated like one. He thought Mr. Frodo was out to tumble me, I reckon, and he didn't approve, knowing naught good could come of it with Mr. Frodo set to be the Mr. Baggins of Bag End and me his servant and all. He sent me off to my Uncle Andy to help with the roping and get me out from underfoot up on the Hill, seemingly. Then Mr. Frodo, he chanced by Tighfield one day and when he saw me, he told me he'd have Mr. Bilbo ask for me back if I liked, and he promised me he wouldn't do no more..." Sam swallowed hard and blushed deep. "No more teasing me, so as not to upset the Gaffer." 

Jolly considered that for a moment, drawing Sam over to sit with him on a low wooden crate sitting outside one of the market stalls. "Was that what he said?" 

"I don't rightly remember all the words of it," Sam admitted after a moment. "But it's near enough, and teasing was what he said." 

"And then what?" Jolly looked away, but his hand pressed Sam's, and Sam knew he was keeping his eye out to be sure Frodo wasn't coming near. 

"Then I come home, and he didn't never... tease me, not no more." Sam shrugged, trying and failing to smile. 

"Nor hardly act civil, neither." There was a strange look on Jolly's face. "Why do you think that is, Sam?" 

"I don't rightly know." Sam didn't want to think about it no more; just talking of it put a hard knot in his throat. "I thought he was just keeping his promise at first, but after a bit, I couldn't be sure of nothing no more, seeing as how he never spoke. My Gaffer was right, I reckon. I weren't never good enough for a word nor a look from such as him, and all the foolish fuss made him sit up and take notice of it." He knew it was an exaggeration, but it felt real in his mouth, real and bitter even after a year. 

"Sam." Jolly sighed, still keeping a weather eye out. "That ain't so. Don't take on, Sam, not here with everybody about." He squeezed Sam's hand again, and met Sam's eye, looking both sad and contrite. "I've got such as I need to tell you--" 

Sam squeezed his hand hard to silence him, for the very minute Jolly looked away, Frodo slipped around the tail end of the dance, drawing near. 

He had both hands in his pockets underneath his weskit, and the way he held himself was idle, as though he were simply strolling about, but to Sam's eye his face was tight, not as happy as it ought to be, though he nodded and smiled to those as met his eye. 

Sam held on to Jolly's hand and pulled him up alongside as he stood up. He lifted his left knuckle to his forehead and lowered his gaze, so as to show proper respect. "Good evening, Mr. Frodo." Jolly did the same, standing calm at Sam's side. 

Frodo nodded a greeting in return, looking at them without speaking for a long moment. His eyes fixed on Jolly and held there. "Those melons your father sent for the party were particularly fine, Jolly," he said after a bit. 

"Thank you, sir. I'll tell Dad you said so, if you're not minding. He'd be right glad to hear you enjoyed them," Jolly answered, perfectly polite, and yet Sam would suddenly rather be anywhere but there between them. 

"Certainly you should tell him, if you like." The words shouldn't have struck Sam as brittle, but they did, and he glanced at Jolly right quick, reassured to find that his friend's face was as calm as a summer morning. 

"And don't go worrying that I'll stay up all night and not be good for nothing in the garden tomorrow, Mr. Frodo," he heard himself say quick to fill the silence. "I'll be right up at sunrise, same as always." 

Now, Sam knew, Frodo would move on, and he wouldn't never cast another look towards Sam, not if he stayed at the revels all night. 

Frodo took a quick breath, and it seemed that he would speak, but then he didn't. He drew his hand out of his pocket and dipped it inside his weskit instead. When he drew it out again, there was a thin envelope between his fingers. 

"I know it's after nuncheon, and it's not how this is supposed to be done..." Frodo hesitated. "But I've made you a birthday present, Sam." Frodo handed it over as though it were hot, gave Sam a curt nod, and walked onward. Jolly tugged Sam's hand and Sam melted away after him, stealing a last glance. 

Jolly didn't slow down till they'd slipped out through a thin place in the hedge and crossed through Farmer Mugwort's corn, then walked a good distance out into his new-shorn hayfield. Sam felt the envelope like to burning a hole through his palm, but he just tucked it away against his breast. Jolly couldn't read it, but he wanted to be alone to open it. 

"That didn't look like no teasing, and that's a fact," Jolly said, and Sam looked up, surprised by a note of rue in his voice. "You say he told you he wouldn't tease no more.... I wonder how that word was meant, I do, but I reckon there's no telling. However he meant it, Himself was deathly earnest tonight, I'll warrant." 

He groped for Sam's hand and held it as they walked on under the moon. "Himself knows about me and you, Sam," he started up right quick, as if he was afraid he'd lose his courage, then fell right back silent again. 

"I reckoned he'd have to learn sooner or later," Sam answered him slowly. "And I won't say I was looking forward to him learning, but I don't reckon it changes much." Did Jolly want to change their understanding because of Mr. Frodo...? 

Jolly didn't seem anxious, though; he just nodded agreement. "He's bound to know it ain't uncommon. And more, he knows we're just lads, and perhaps he reckons what we do don't mean forever. I want you to know, Sam, I'll always count you as my friend. I'll lend you a hand about your work when it's needed, and you'll lend a hand with mine when I ask. We've always been so; we buy each other ale and lie in the sun; we tell tales and laugh, and sometimes we tell such as doesn't make neither of us laugh, and ease our grief in the sharing. If I decided to court a lass tomorrow, you'd stand up at the handfasting and see us wed, and I'd do the same for you." 

Sam nodded, relieved even though Jolly was obviously in distress. "Jolly, if you--" 

"Let me finish, Sam." Jolly smiled at him, mixing reassurance and rue. "Now I know you've had your heart full of Himself since well before I ever started thinking of us, and I won't deny that's part of why we're as we are, Sam, just as we're together temporary-like because I want a hole full of my own children someday." Jolly wouldn't let Sam talk, words pouring out like they couldn't be stopped. "We talked about all that and it was right for us to do it so neither would misunderstand and get hurt. But we didn't talk enough, like I said." That quick the flow dried up, leaving them to walk for several dozen ells under the moonlight, ducking through shrub hedges and feeling rough stubble underfoot in three different fields. 

"What is it you need to tell me?" Sam asked him quietly at length, bringing them to a stop next to Farmer Banks' scare-crow; they were far enough from the barn, and hidden besides, so nobody would never find or hear them. 

Jolly looked at Sam, plainly miserable. "I don't know what's in that letter, and I don't know if I should go telling you this, for it'll cause you more hurt than it's worth, like as not." 

"Jolly, if you can't stand sharing no more," Sam's throat closed up tight with guilty sorrow. "I'll understand, truly I will." 

Jolly shook his head. "It ain't me as can't stand the sharing, nor even you," he said softly. "Sam, it's Himself as has me worried. For him as well as you." Jolly shook his head. "Did you see him with Nibs yesterday, saving the lad's pride along with his own? He could have been put out with Nibs as bad or worse than you and dad, for it was his shoulder that wall come down on. But he didn't hold no grudge. He made Nibs feel worth his keep again by giving him summat useful to do." 

Jolly took a deep breath. "That's why he's who he is, I reckon; gentlefolk don't just come about by birth. Somebody somewhere has to do something fine to earn such a position, and that gets passed down the line, and a good share of it's come to your Mr. Frodo, seemingly. It's took me these many months, but I've come at last to see just why you set such store by him. 

"Now I've come around the long way to where I started." He reached out and tapped Sam's weskit where the envelope nestled against his breast. "That ain't the gift a master gives his servant, Sam. A letter?" He shook his head. "Some other servant he'd give a new cap, maybe, or some tarts, or a proper mathom, or some kind of regular foolishness. A letter, now. That's made to tell you summat you don't know, I reckon." 

Sam took a deep breath. "Well, what of it?" 

"Well, I think I'm knowing something of what that letter might say." Jolly dropped his hand and looked at Sam, as even and calm as ever. "And I'm wondering if you're going to look at it, or leave it tucked away." 

Sam just blinked at him, not sure he'd heard aright. "Leave it?" He couldn't fathom how that might be possible. "If he wants me to know something, I reckon I'd better be knowing it." 

"It won't be instructions to plant hollyhocks beside the verge," Jolly shook his head. "He misses ye, Sam." 

Sam shivered to hear it, misery and guilt flooding right down to his toes, and not a little fear, but Jolly was going on. 

"One thing you're right about: he don't make no difference between none of us. You saw him yourself yesterday afternoon, working like any one of the common folk, and getting his feelings hurt when he was told off to quit. You're every bit of right when you say he used to treat you like he treated his own cousins, and them the sons of the Master of the Hall and the Thain of the Shire. He's still that way with everyone but you; he was as polite to me as he could be tonight and yesterday both, though none too friendly. And I know why that last is, right enough, Sam Gamgee!" 

Sam stared, startled by the vehemence in Jolly's voice. "Why's that then, Jolly Cotton?" His voice shook no matter how he tried to firm it. 

"Well, that's plain enough to anybody." Jolly looked away and wouldn't meet Sam's eyes. "It's because I've got you and he don't. He come out to be with you, Sam, not because he took a foolish notion to turn carpenter." 

"Jolly, you don't see--" 

"I do, Sam. It's you who don't see." Jolly shook his head. "When you went off to Tighfield and then come back, what all was lost when you got home?" 

Sam blinked, not getting Jolly's drift. It was obvious enough. "Mr. Frodo weren't friendly no more," he said at last, a bit impatient, when Jolly kept waiting. 

"Now you start to see." Jolly looked up, half triumphant and half-distressed. "And that was all, weren't it? He were still polite, and you still had your position up on the Hill, but you'd lost your friend, and didn't have no other. Not till I come along and gave you one, I reckon, seeing as how you needed it so bad you couldn't bear yourself. Now think about it from behind his eyes, Sam. What do you think he'd lost?" 

Sam frowned; he couldn't rightly say. "I don't reckon he lost nothing he wanted; I--" 

"You ain't seeing after all, Sam. Some days you come near enough earning the name your Gaffer gave you," Jolly complained, and Sam flushed, angry and a little hurt. 

"I were still his friend, for my part!" he snapped. "He didn't have to lose naught." 

"Ah, but don't you see?" Jolly pushed one solid finger against Sam's chest. "He said he wouldn't tease, and that's the problem. That's a big word, and it means more than one thing. What did he tease you with, Sam? Him being your friend? Him treating you equal? Him letting you see he had a desire for you? I reckon all of that counts, or near enough. When you got back, he couldn't do none of that no more, for fear the Gaffer would send you off again. And so he did what he thought he must. Or worse, what if he had to make his promise to more folk than you, had you thought of that?" 

Sam felt tears threaten. "I thought he might have, I reckon, but after a while--" 

"But nothing. I remember him setting on a bench out in the garden with you, Sam, that very day I went up to ask you to our husking party a year or more ago. It was a hot day; I remember being all of a sweat. Do you think he'd have sat out there in the hot sun like that if he couldn't abide your company? Do you think he'd have come over to us tonight if he didn't want to see you?" 

Sam felt his whole insides drop as though they'd vanished right out of him. "But all he wanted was to tell you about the melons," he mumbled, knowing it weren't true. 

"With a letter already written in his vest pocket, tucked away sealed and ready to give you and all?" 

"Him and Mr. Bilbo, they're no twelve-mile cousins. They always give a bit of something to everyone, their kin and those as works for them." Oh, but he couldn't have made such a terrible mistake. He couldn't. His knees were shaking and his tongue felt so thick it might be stuck to the roof of his mouth. 

"I dragged you off and made you my friend," Jolly continued, not letting Sam dither. "But nobody done the same for him, seemingly. He's all right when his cousins visit, I judge, but before and after? Bag End is a lonely place, I reckon, with naught but books and Mr. Bilbo for company. 

"You and me being together, now. I reckon that's a double-edged knife with its blade closed inside his hand. It takes away his hope that you'll spare a bit of yourself for his company just at the same time as it gives him a bit of space to be friendly with you again. But no matter he might get cut on that knife. He's trying not to let it go." 

"Well, if you're right, what am I supposed to do?" Sam shook his head, heart thundering, torn between guilt and hope. That letter felt like it was burning next to his heart, its contents yet unread. Lightning forked on the horizon, shading Jolly's face with a pale cast for a split second before fading away. 

Jolly sighed. "I don't rightly know." Again he wouldn't quite look at Sam, and that seemed peculiar. "Maybe that letter will give you some idea. Quit putting him off, maybe. You're so quick to tell him how hard you're going to work and how you won't need no punishment that he can't get a word in edgewise, like any word he might try would do, after. You knuckle your forehead and don't look in his face." 

"It ain't my fault," Sam said softly and heard his own voice break. "I've tried to do what he wanted." 

"It's never what he wanted, Sam Gamgee," Jolly looked up and the moonlight showed both the certainty and the pity in his face. "And it ain't your fault, but I reckon you each have to do summat about it, for I can't bear to see the both of you suffer the way you are." He reached out and Sam went into his arms, needing the solid comfort of the hug. The letter crackled between them, and in the distance, thunder growled long and low. 

Sam hung on to Jolly tight, taking comfort in the solid strength of him. "I wouldn't want to go putting myself forward where I'm not wanted." 

"You won't be." Jolly held Sam back, sober. "But be careful, Sam. I know the two of us make it look like there's naught left over for Mr. Frodo, but there's your Gaffer to think of, and he weren't never a fool." 

"I'll be careful." Sam lifted his chin, defiant. "Jolly Cotton, I don't know what I ever did to deserve such a friend as you, and I won't be forgetting." 

"See that you don't." Jolly pressed a kiss up against his ear, and it tickled. "Mind you let me know when you and me are done with, Sam, so as I can let you go." 

Sam drew a shaky breath and nodded. The letter could wait; there weren't no lamps hereabouts, so it would have to. He'd open it later, whenever he could creep off alone. There might be Mr. Frodo to worry about and take care of-- but there were Jolly, too, and Sam cared a great deal about him, especially seeing as how he took such pains to be fair to Mr. Frodo. 

And what's more, there was Sam himself. He knew it wouldn't be easy trying to rediscover the proper balance between being both a servant and a friend to his master. For this moment, there weren't nothing he could do. What he needed was a time just to let himself be, without letting his worries crush him, so he could face the morrow with his head clear. 

"Well, I ain't going nowhere tonight, and that's a fact." He slid his hands up Jolly's arms and pressed forward, making Jolly shiver and pull in a quick breath. "Ain't there still a haystack standing over by the hedgerow?" 

Jolly slid his own hands down Sam's back to his waist and kissed him soft and slow. "Let's go find one, if there ain't."


	23. Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jolly makes a hard decision about Sam.

I'm a thief, and I've taken Himself's favorite treasure. There's no doubting it. Never mind that you can't properly steal summat that's been set out by the road for the next comer to find. Never mind that Sam's his own hobbit and ain't nobody's to steal. Never mind that Himself knows as well as I do that Sam's Gaffer hasn't said aught about Himself spending a bit of his time near Sam again just because the Gaffer knows right well how me and Sam sneak off together and hide to have a bit of a cuddle whenever we find the chance. 

I'm not poking fun or making a mock when I say aught about Sam and treasure, neither. He's better than any bit of bright gold or any jewel set in silver to sparkle on a Took's finger. I'd give a stack of coins as tall as I am for the sight and the feel of Sam under me, gasping pleasure, and not think it no loss. A body's got no use for cold metal or hard stone when he's got someone to love, has his health, and sits down every evening to a table as fine as we lay out in the Cotton home. 

It took near a week after Himself and Mr. Bilbo's birthday before Sam finally plucked up the courage to show me the letter he'd got. 

I couldn't make naught of it. Writing looks like hen-tracks to me, but Sam pointed his finger to a spot or two and told me what they said. One set of marks that looked to me like they was made by a drunk lizard escaping from the coal scuttle meant Mr. Frodo was thanking Sam for saving him from dropping that pole he'd been fool enough to take up. Another praised the way Sam kept the garden, with particular attention to him being sure he didn't work himself too hard, especially in the heat of the day. There was more lines, and Sam told me what a few of them meant, but it was mostly just pleasantry and terms of respect and praise such as made Sam's ears turn red to read out loud about himself. 

Most important to Sam was the last passage, where it said Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo was thinking to give care of the garden over to Sam entire come next spring, seeing as how the Gaffer was well into his golden years and Sam was clearly ready to take it on himself. That didn't signify much, with me. I knew Sam was past ready, with all his skill and his stubborn will to do for Mr. Frodo. Still, it were a mark of trust-- and not a small one, neither, for it meant Sam could have his own living, complete with enough coin or credit to set up a smial of his own if it pleased him, though he'd still be near eleven years under coming of age. 

There was a second page of the letter that Sam didn't read to me. I reckoned it were the real birthday present. I asked him about the lines on it; they seemed a different style from the others. They were a deal fancier for one thing, and the first mark of them all was done up tangled with pictures of flowers and ferns and lacy branches with a few birds in them, outlined in black and filled in with bright colors, and twining about the borders of the page. Sam called that "illumination." I didn't know what he meant, but it seemed to me such a picture had taken considerable time and thought. 

"What do they say, Sam?" I couldn't help asking; they looked beautiful, each stroke of the pen crafted with care-- and some of the strokes in gold ink, too. 

"I don't know," he answered me after a long moment, staring down at the letter in his hands like he could make it give up its secrets just with the force of his wishing. "And he knew I wouldn't. It's Elvish, high Elvish, and I know the sounds of the letters, but I don't know what the words say, mostly. It's a poem, or it looks like." 

"Maybe him who wrote it meant for you to come asking." 

"Maybe." Sam's finger trembled. "That word there, now, I've heard it to remember." His finger barely touched the paper right underneath the word. I looked, and it didn't seem no different from none of the others, with a little scattering of three dots over the first letter, and one over the second, and one under the third, and.... 

"What is it?" 

_"Vanimelda,"_ Sam said out loud, and his voice quavered around the shape of the word, so tender it was almost a whisper. 

"What does it mean?" 

Sam just shook his head and folded the letter again, tucking it away. "It don't mean me, and that's for certain." He wouldn't say no more, and yet I thought whatever the word might be, it meant whatever fair thing the Elves intended-- but to Frodo Baggins, it also meant Sam Gamgee. 

"You ought to ask the wizard, if you won't ask Himself." Old Gandalf didn't make much of a show of being about, but many knew he was up in Bag End, and had been since a night or two after the party. 

Sam coloured. "I did." 

"What did he tell you, then?" 

"The same as you did." Sam blew out a slow breath. "He said that if I wanted to know what the lines meant, I should ask the one who wrote them." 

"Then that's what you ought to do about it." 

I told him such, anyway, though I ain't quite comfortable in my mind about that Mr. Gandalf. There's those who say he's a troublemaker, disturbing the peace hereabouts, and those who say he's lured lads and lasses off into the Wild for adventures as many years back as any gaffer can remember a tale of (Mr. Bilbo not least among them, neither). And there's darker mutters than that, about how Mr. Bilbo is so everlasting well-preserved, and about dark magic arts and such as ain't natural. 

I'd hate to see the wizard haul Sam off on some hare-brained foolishness, nor Mr. Frodo neither. To see Mr. Frodo go would break Sam's heart. Still, I reckon that's the business of my betters, and I don't meddle in it none. 

Thinking on Mr. Gandalf, I was surprised that Sam would be so bold. I reckoned his daring must be the measure of how badly he wanted to know what the letter said, for he's quoted old Mr. Bilbo's saying about wizards to me more times than I can remember: about not meddling in business with them, for they be subtle and quick to anger. 

"Well, if you won't ask Himself, you won't." I gave him a look, narrow-like. "You know your own mind, I reckon, Sam Gamgee." 

That were all we said before he folded up his letter and tucked it away tender, like some living thing nestled next to his breast. 

Before Sam showed me that letter, I'd had a thought or two of a mischievous sort in which I supposed I might answer one of Himself's steady, flat looks one day by asking if he cared to join me and Sam for a tumble in the hay. I might have spoke my thought if it weren't Himself, or if Sam's nature weren't so shy. But after hearing the sound of Sam's voice when he said that sweet Elf-word? I knew I wouldn't never make such a jest. Such cheek would be worse than a slap through both their faces. 

No, I ain't going to be about no joking, and I won't be pushing Sam no farther towards Himself, neither. I've meddled there as far as I care to, one way or the other. They'll find their way to one another or they won't. It's for me to cherish the time I have and to be ready to let Sam go when it's done. 

I'm afraid I'll be having to let go sooner rather than later. 

The way that word fell off Sam's tongue matched the thought of him who wrote it, I'll wager. But I won't make no wager Himself was expecting Sam to remember it, given how he didn't know none of the others. I won't even wager Sam will ask him what the rest of it means any time quick. But one thing I do know: I can't stand between them much longer, not knowing what I know. Not if I want to hold my head up, after. 

Remembering the look of those lines, how carefully they were drawn and how fine and thick the parchment was, remembering the gold ink sparkling under the Sun, thinking of the tremble in Sam's voice when he shaped that lovely Elvish word... 

I don't want to be that sort of a thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Vanimelda:_ Beautiful (fair) beloved


	24. A Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam talks over his thoughts with a loved one.

Sam slipped out of Number Three in the first grey whispers of false dawn, when all the world lay in a pure, unbroken hush and dew glimmered on the grass with the faintest grey-green light, as though the grass glowed from within. 

His feet left dark prints in the lawn and across the field, and after a few steps he was soaked to the knees, but he pressed on, touching the seed-heads of the grass and the curling tendrils of sweet-pea vines with his fingertips. Down the hill towards the water was a path he took more often than some might have thought. 

Through a hedgerow and a scattering of trees he passed, silent as a shadow, listening to the first rustling and chirping of sleepy birds, and the first full-throated call of a magpie overhead. It seemed to wake the whole Shire, rousing an answer from first a nearby tree, and then the birdsong spread even farther. As he stepped to the edge of the burying-ground, a cock-crow rose, and he could hear a door closing far away, very faint but very clear. 

Sam sat down and leaned his shoulder against a carved plank set into the ground, reaching to touch the letters with his fingertips. He'd made this thing himself, well as he knew how, for his mother. He didn't have no tools nor much money, just his fingers and his knife, but his mam had the best marker he could give her, better than most common hobbits did, for it had a bit of writing carved on it that told who she was and when she lived. 

"You always wanted me to be more than just a gardener, I reckon," Sam whispered. "Dad, now, he didn't hold with it, but he never did see everything just the way you did." He fell silent, touching the soft, slow-blurring surface of the wood, grey from the sun and green in places, where moss and lichen crept along its surface. "I didn't neither, I guess, being so young and all." 

He could still remember his days with her in the kitchen and about the hole-- helping her hang out sheets or tie up a roast or stuff a hen, watching her fold sweets into pale dough. And then there had been the long winters of helping Daisy when Mam weren't there no more, Daisy who'd learned most of his Mam's kitchen-craft before... before she passed. Daisy hadn't never minded teaching it to Sam, for she liked a bit of company as she went about, and what's more she needed it, with all of them to feed and clean up after and wash for. May hadn't been no help to her, for she was busy raising Marigold, for all that she was just seven years older. 

But that weren't no matter; they'd made it and they'd had a good life, in all things but the empty space Samwise's mam left behind her when she passed. 

"I learned to keep house like you meant me to, for all you couldn't stay." Sam felt tears choke his throat. "Though maybe not quite like you had in mind, I'm guessing. But I do know what you meant for me, and I think that's what I'm for, though I may not be thinking quite the same as you were when you planned it." His voice shook as it occurred to him to wonder what she might have said about Sam being sent off to Tighfield to be a roper without so much as a by-your-leave, for fear of him getting too familiar with Mr. Frodo. 

"I'm his, I reckon, and I hope you're not sad to hear it." Sam bent his head around the knot of old pain in his chest-- missing his mam-- and new pain, from missing his chosen master. "Mr. Frodo's, I mean," he explained carefully. "And I reckon I always have been, so it may be that you knew." A bit of lichen fell away, and he crumbled it in between his fingertips and let it fall. 

"I've got a bit of something for you," Sam murmured, and opened the kerchief he held in his hand, where a white waxy blossom lay tucked safe, fallen from one of the glossy green-leaved bushes Mr. Bilbo had in the lee-side of the yard. "Mr. Bilbo don't mind if I take the ones as fall on their own. " It was still mostly fresh, with just a little bit of brown where it hit the earth and bruised when it fell, but it smelled sweet. Sam took out a little rough-fired clay bowl from the breast of his weskit and went to fill it in the water, and brought it back, setting his blossom to float there. 

He took a deep breath and stood up. The sun was peeping over the edge of the world now, and its rays baked into Sam's back, promising a hot day. "Dad means well, for certain, but my path ain't something he can set." Sam felt a hollow tremble in the pit of his stomach, and an excited flutter too-- fear, and possibility. His whole life stretched out in front of him like two roads, and he knew he'd set his feet firm on one, and nobody wouldn't never stir him from it, no matter where it led. "Rest quiet, now, and I'll come back when I may, to tell you how it went."


	25. Tea and Jam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam takes on new responsibilities at Bag End.

Sam found the Road again, but walked in the verge so as not to pick up the dust all over his feet. It had taken him a day or two, but he had finally settled on his plan and worked up the courage he needed to try it. Now was the perfect time; what with Mr. Gandalf up at Bag End, Sam knew Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo had quite a bit extra to do, and shopping not the least of it. 

He could hear a bit of noise from through the kitchen window when he arrived, so he screwed up his courage and tapped at the door. 

Mr. Bilbo answered, still bleary with sleep and apparently not having had his morning tea yet. "Samwise? It's early yet, lad. Come in for a bit and tell me what you want." 

"Well, I'm not wanting something, as such," Sam followed shyly; though his sisters came in regularly to fetch the laundry, he hadn't been inside the smial himself in a long while-- excepting his dreams, which he weren't telling nobody about. "I thought you might want a bit of extra help, what with your company and all. Someone to fetch and carry from the market, or perhaps do a bit of the kitchen work." 

Bilbo eyed Sam shrewdly, eyes lingering on Sam's neck, and Sam stood up right stout, not trying to hide the mark Jolly had left on his throat at his collar, though he flushed to his toes thinking of it. If such as that made Mr. Bilbo think it were safe to let Sam be around Frodo, he'd pinch himself a few more, and never mind the teasing he got from the lads, neither. 

"Well, I wouldn't say no to a bit of help just for the present," Bilbo decided after a moment. "Get the fire going and bring in water to fill the kettle for tea, there's a good lad. Gandalf won't sleep late; he never does. Frodo, now, I won't see him before noon..." Bilbo rummaged in the cupboard for a saucer, then left it and went hunting a knife to cut a loaf for toast, and just as quickly wandered into the pantry without accomplishing naught. 

When he returned with a pot of jam in his hands, Sam had the fire going and a cup and saucer waiting for him on the table, alongside a loaf and the jagged knife that was made for cutting it. Bilbo blinked at the neat array of items. 

"You've been hiding your talents, haven't you!" Bilbo fixed him with an alert eye. "I don't suppose you can cook?" 

"I can cook a bit better than toast, if you like," Sam said stoutly. "There's not a hobbit in the West Farthing who can make finer scones than Mr. Bilbo Baggins, but if you've a mind to take your ease, then I'll be happy to make a try at second-best." 

Bilbo laughed. "No, there's no need for that. We'll have toast. You can stir up scrambled eggs, though, with sausage and bacon and cheese and tomato all inside. The eggs are down at the spring house, and we'll need a bit more cheese, too." 

"That I can," Sam headed out for the springhouse where the eggs and cheeses were kept, thinking gratefully of his mother. It was more than a boon to Sam, her foresight in setting out to teach him how to valet to Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo someday. What with her passing, the Gaffer had kept Sam so busy in his own outdoor work the chance hadn't ever offered itself, but trying this new direction was the best idea Sam think of to make himself keep a bit of company with Frodo in an acceptable way. 

He'd wager on having a bit more skill placing himself within Frodo's world this way than Frodo had in putting himself into Sam's world, at any rate. 

Sam brought up a basket of eggs, a half-bottle of milk, a round, cool lump of butter, and one of the hard white cheeses coated in red wax-- Mr. Bilbo's favorite, from Sam's observing in the past-- and a bucket of fresh water, too, on his other arm. He let himself in through the backdoor where his sisters came for the laundry and slipped up the hall as quiet as a mouse to set it all down in the kitchen. 

"There you are." Bilbo took the bucket and filled the kettle. "I'm never myself until I've had a cup of tea," he grumbled. "If there were a way to have it waiting when I got up, I'd be a better hobbit." 

"Well, there is, if you don't mind me saying so, sir." Sam lifted his chin, pleased with the opening. "It wouldn't be the work of a moment for me to light the fires and put the kettle on when I come up every morning." 

That earned him a sharper look, and a longer pause to go with it. "You know, Samwise, I've been meaning to talk to you about your position here, but I'd been waiting for you to grow up a bit first. Maybe pick a lass to settle with." Again the flicker of eyes to Sam's collar, and a silent pause for thought. "I expect that will take a few years yet." 

Did this mean he'd changed his mind about what Frodo said in the letter? Sam's heart sank. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I don't need no lass to do a proper job at my work. You ask my Gaffer if I've ever shirked for a minute--" 

Bilbo chuckled. "Now, Sam, don't take on. I meant I would hate to saddle you with a job that would take all the time you'll need for courting, when you get around to it." 

Sam couldn't think of no way to say his thoughts about courting without risking disrespect for Mr. Bilbo, but luckily he didn't have to. 

"Good morning, Bilbo. Samwise." Gandalf ducked the threshold and came to sit a bit awkwardly on the bench. Sam took the liberty of finding another cup and saucer for him in the cupboard, and a spoon, too, while Bilbo spooned leaves into tea-balls: one for himself and one for Gandalf. "What's this about putting a saddle on the help?" 

"Sam's offered to help about the place, as well as keeping the garden." Bilbo definitely looked on the verge of disapproving; Gandalf shot Sam a quick look under his bushy eyebrows. 

"Has he?" the wizard sounded mild and tolerant. "I'd think that would help to settle him, not saddle him. I'm sure hobbits are no different than other beings in that they like to know their chosen spouses will have steady jobs with good pay." 

Bilbo chuffed a little, considering that. The kettle began to sing, so Sam wrapped its handle in a cloth and hurried to pour up the tea, being sure not to splash or spill. "I'd agree, if our Samwise were interested in the lasses, maybe." 

Sam didn't look up none, keeping his pour steady, then taking the kettle to refill it in case more was wanted. 

"Why should a lad be any different?" Gandalf picked up his cup and blew steam over the rim before touching it to his lips. "Samwise may not have settled on one yet, but I believe he is closer to it than you think." 

Sam gulped, clutching the handle of the kettle, and tried not to let it rattle on the hook as he set it back over the fire with fresh water inside. 

"Do you really think so?" Bilbo brightened. 

"I certainly do." Another quick look darted in Sam's direction. "Only the day after the party, he asked for my help with translating a love poem from Quenya into common speech." 

That time Sam did drop what he held, but fortunately it was only the cloth he'd used to protect his hand from the kettle's hot handle. "Mr. Gandalf, that ain't fair," he protested faintly. _Love poem?_ "I didn't mean no harm by it." 

"Of course you didn't." Gandalf sipped his tea, watching Bilbo keenly. 

"Sam." Bilbo's voice warmed. "If you're sending love poems, there's no better choice for beautiful words that sing to the ear and to the heart. Elvish is a marvelous language, and I'd be happy to help you translate a poem and teach you to say it for your sweetheart." 

Sam waited, his heart in his throat, for Gandalf to betray him-- but the old wizard just looked into his cup and kept taking sips of tea, content to share the secret between them, seemingly. 

"That's kind of you, Mr. Bilbo, but I wouldn't feel right putting you out so," Sam faltered. Now that the tea was made, he should put the scrambled eggs on the fire, not stand here dithering till Mr. Bilbo sent him away. 

"Nonsense, my boy." Bilbo beamed. "I know just the one, a song from Turin to Beleg. I'll have a bit of it ready when you come up tomorrow to start the fires-- and we'll see how you do with that kitchen work in addition to the garden for a month or two, before we decide on more." 

Sam flushed. "Thank you, sir." He meant it both for Mr. Bilbo and for Mr. Gandalf, who had drawn out his pipe and begun thumbing weed into its shallow, fat bowl. They both nodded to him and Sam ducked his head away. 

Moving with special care to be efficient, he put sausages and bacon on to fry. Keeping half an eye on Mr. Bilbo, he reached down a bowl from the cabinet and broke the eggs inside, then tossed the shells into the fire and began chopping a tomato and crumbled up a small wedge of the fine, heavy cheese. 

He put some of the butter in a new pan and left it to melt till it snapped; Mr. Bilbo watched him keenly as he mixed the eggs with a bit of milk and poured it all in the pan to fry, not offering any critical comment. The eggs cooked quick and come out fluffy and yellow, toothsome enough to make Sam's own mouth water. Mr. Bilbo and Gandalf dug right in, and Mr. Bilbo sighed with obvious pleasure after sampling the first forkful, giving Sam a nod. 

He was out in the garden within minutes after serving them, heart singing with ridiculous joy. He planned to slip back in and wash the dishes later. Let Mr. Bilbo have a month of not having to take care of such as that, and he'd put Sam on the job for sure. 

Best not to count his chickens, though; the Gaffer would have to know about this, and he might yet cut up rough. 

Still... 

A love poem. Sam took a deep breath of the early autumn morning, feeling it shiver all the way down to his toes. This autumn looked to be rather more hopeful than the last, and next spring he'd have the garden as his own charge, and then? He'd be his own hobbit, with none to tell him what he ought to do or not, unless he let them. 

Mayhap he might even dare ask Mr. Frodo what that poem said then, and how it was meant. 

Humming, Sam went about his morning's work.


	26. Eye to Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam confronts the Gaffer with his new position.

When he'd finished his work for the day, Sam cleaned his tools and put them away proper, then shut up the shed and left Bag End, closing the gate fast behind him. He didn't quite dare to poke his nose indoors-- let Mr. Bilbo get used to having him about for a bit before he put himself forward any farther than he had. 

He went down to his family's little patch of garden and gathered up the squash and some of the tomatoes; they had more than they could eat this year, and that was a fact. He picked a few beans, too, but left the greens since he didn't have another basket to haul enough along with him for the table. 

Looking properly responsible, he went on home, trying to figure out what he might say to his dad. He couldn't hide his new duties, and that was a fact. Better the news come from him than Mr. Bilbo spilling it, not knowing the Gaffer hadn't been told up-front. 

His Gaffer sat in a shady green nook of the little yard, mending harness with scraps of leather, a needle, and stout hemp thread. Sam decided a little reminder of him and Jolly wouldn't go amiss given the conversation he was about to have. He made sure his collar was open before he went up to the gate. 

"Good afternoon, Dad." 

"Afternoon." Gaffer looked up. "Ee've finished early, haven't 'ee, Sam?" 

"There ain't a lot to do right now, what with the summer flowers done and the autumn ones already set out. It ain't time for pruning just yet," Sam commented, knowing quite well that his father knew all this better than he did. "Seeing how I don't have enough to occupy me, I've got an idea to make myself useful. Mr. Bilbo's got company in and out of the smial near every week, and it wears on him now that he's getting on." That was true enough; Bilbo might not look a bit of his age, but he was as crotchety as any proper old hobbit. 

His Gaffer stuck the needle he held in to the twine spool to keep it safe and eyed Sam, narrow-like. 

"So 'ee up and told him 'ee wanted do for him in the kitchen, him and Mr. Frodo." He didn't sound surprised. "I figured that would be next, what with 'ee set to take the garden over without no help." 

"There don't seem to be no reason why I can't do a bit of both." Sam lifted his chin. 

"'Ee don't see how proud and cocky 'ee've got, I'll warrant. I told my Bell she was filling 'ee full of crazy ideas, Sam, before she died, and I was right, seemingly." Gaffer studied the tangle of worn leather in his hands. "I guess 'ee know there ain't no chance I'll be stopping 'ee, not this time, not if Mr. Bilbo's said 'ee yes." 

Sam's heart hammered in his chest, fear and hope mingled together fit to make him choke on his breath. "He said I might try it, and see if I could handle the job." 

"Mind 'ee keep to the kitchen and stay out of that Mr. Frodo's bedroom!" Gaffer scowled up at him. "I ain't so blind I can't see 'ee makin' calf-eyes at him, for all that 'ee keep on walkin' out with Jolly." 

Sam felt resentment and anger rise quick enough to overwhelm the shame that stained his cheeks. He didn't like feeling so angry with his old dad, but he couldn't help it, not after all he'd been through-- and Mr. Frodo, too, if you could credit it. 

"I reckon where I do go in to and where do I keep out of while I'm working at Bag End is a matter to be settled between me and Mr. Bilbo, as well as Mr. Frodo." Sam kept his voice and his eyes level, for all he was scared out of his wits, hardly able to credit the sauce he was offering his own dad. 

His Gaffer studied him from beneath lowered brows, frowning in silence for a long time before he pushed the mending off his lap and fumbled for his pouch and his pipe without finding neither. "I see 'ee grew a backbone while I weren't looking. I reckon that Brandybuck lad's been encouraging 'ee while I weren't looking, as well." 

Sam drew a deep breath. "Not a bit of it." At least, not till that letter. "He ain't teased me none since I come back from Tighfield. I reckon he's done with it." 

"'Ee best hope so, if 'ee know what's best for 'ee." The Gaffer scowled down at the harness and bunched it up between his gnarled hands. "I should have left 'ee in Tighfield, I reckon, for all Andy said 'ee weren't happy nohow, and for all Mr. Bilbo asked for 'ee special. I knew who was behind that, right enough-- 'ee and that Mr. Frodo both. Seeing the two of 'ee turn away when 'ee pass ain't never fooled me, neither." 

"Dad--" 

"Let me have my say." The Gaffer poked towards Sam with a callused finger. "I know 'ee ain't happy with me, and 'ee think there's cause. I ain't never explained myself to 'ee like I should have a long while back. I reckon 'ee know what I've got to say anyhow, so I'll just say this. If 'ee spend the rest of the long years 'ee have left working that garden in bitterness and sorrow in trade for a night or a week or a year of rolling about in a feather-bed, just because 'ee wouldn't listen to me when I tried to warn 'ee...." 

He ran down sudden-like, and Sam realized the Gaffer had a tear in his eye. He could see Marigold peeking out at the window, her eyes as round as if she'd still been a lass of ten. "'Ee ain't about to listen, and that's plain." Gaffer looked old suddenly, old and worn and worried, and not terrible or fearsome at all, though his face hadn't changed none. "'I shouldn't never have let 'ee go up there to learn that writing tomfoolery. It gave 'ee notions, lad. Ee'll come to a bad end from such, mark my words!" 

"Then it'll be my end," Sam said, as gentle as he could. "And I won't blame you for none of it." He could taste some strange wild thing fluttering in his throat, and he realized with a start that it was victory. 

"You're thinking that'll make it easier for the old Gaffer to see 'ee suffer?" Gaffer snapped. "Still, I reckon 'ee're set on making a misery over him no matter what, so I can't do much to stop 'ee, not when I know 'ee'll be leavin' my roof soon to take up the trade as 'ee please. And 'ee just twenty-one!" 

Sam didn't have no answer for that; it was the plain truth and they both knew it. 

"They ain't like us, boy." The Gaffer scrubbed crossly at his face, where a tear had escaped. "And 'ee ain't like them. And when 'ee want a shoulder to cry on, I reckon 'ee have one here as long as 'ee might have a mind to use it." He got up from his seat, old bones slowing him down more than Sam could bear to see. Walking forward, the Gaffer reached out for Sam and clasped him roughly. "Don't turn from the old Gaffer just because 'ee don't see eye to eye with him, Sam." 

"I ain't." Sam felt hoarseness in his own throat. "And I ain't moving out." 

"Oh, yes 'ee are." The Gaffer looked at him, hollow-eyed but with rueful amusement. "Why do 'ee think I'm taking on so? Mr. Bilbo and I already arranged for it to happen when the time come, though I reckon it's about to come a lot sooner than either of us planned on. 'Ee won't go right away, but when the time comes, he'll tell 'ee." 

Sam swallowed hard, staring at his Gaffer with wide eyes. "But where to?" 

The Gaffer stared at Sam. "Are 'ee daft, boy? Bag End, that's where. They ain't got so much land as to have a gamekeeper's shack, and 'ee ain't biding in the toolshed." 

Sam swallowed hard; he couldn't believe his ears. 

"Mind 'ee do a good job, lad. And mind what I told 'ee about that bedroom, for like enough the Bagginses won't stand for such sauce from 'ee as I do." The Gaffer was suddenly his scowling self again. "I reckon if they put 'ee out, there's a place for 'ee working with Farmer Cotton and his lads, if 'ee don't make an enemy out of their Jolly over all this foolishness with the master." 

"I won't," Sam vowed. "He already knows such as he needs to." 

"Knowing and doing ain't hardly the same." Gaffer shook his head. "Still, I reckon I'd best get back to mending before 'ee tell me a second time to mind my own affairs." He snatched up the leather and the twine and put his head down stubbornly, fumbling at it, but any fool could have seen his hands were shaking. 

Sam's heart hurt, but knew it would be kindest to leave his Gaffer be till he got hold of himself again. "I'll go in then and put the supper on," he said softly, and went inside.


	27. A Quiet Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo wakes early.

From the moment Mr. Bilbo accepted him, Sam had known it would happen one morning, and sure enough, it didn't take long. Not long at all-- a matter of days, not even a week-- before he was cooking one moment, and the next he felt the weight of the stillness in the smial change all of a sudden. There was a flutter in his belly and just a droplet of water spattered over the edge of the kettle and then hissed in the newly-kindled fire as he swung the kettle over the hearth, pretending he hadn't noticed his silent companion. 

He measured flour for pumpkin scones, his hands steady in spite of that giddy flutter, and he hummed a note or two to himself, an old Shire-song that suddenly rose in his heart. Sifting the flour carefully, he stole a glimpse in the glazing of the window and caught the distorted silhouette behind him, leaning in the round doorway, absolutely still. 

Something broke open inside him, tender and yearning, and in his mind he could hear Old Mr. Gandalf's voice again, calling Mr. Frodo's gift a love poem. 

He let his humming rise into song, words shaping softly below his breath-- the melody was all that was needed to give Frodo most of them, which every hobbit knew, only Sam changed them a bit, so as to make them fit his heart. 

_With heart so gay on happy day_   
_I walked with step so sprightly,_   
_The fairest lad I ever saw_   
_Came tripping there so lightly._   
_On his beauty so amazing,_   
_All transfixed I stood there gazing,_   
_'Mong the fairest he seemed rarest,_   
_His smile did shed around fresh beauty;_   
_He shone like moonlight to my view,_   
_To love him was but duty!_

When he had finished there was a short pause, during which Sam could hear the thumping of his own heart, and he trembled at the sheer cheek of having sung such a thing where he knew Mr. Frodo could hear. After a long moment that hung bright in quivering expectation and hope, he heard the softest sound behind him, a wisp of breath and a stir of foot announcing Mr. Frodo's presence. Sam smiled into the bowl. He looked up as Mr. Frodo stepped forth, making a fair show of being but newly wakened, rubbing at his eyes, his hair tousled. 

"Good morning, Mr. Frodo. Have a seat, sir, and the water will be hot presently." Sam tasted the words with shy pleasure. 

"Good morning, Sam." Tentative but warm, Mr. Frodo's smile made him feel welcome. 

Sam left his flour and reached Mr. Frodo down a mug and the tea canister, making a tea ball ready and setting a place just so at the table as Mr. Frodo sat quietly, watching. 

Had Mr. Frodo risen so early in the past year or more? If he had, Sam Gamgee had not known of it, and he heard most things that stirred about Bag End after dawn. 

The kettle hissed, ready to sing, and he pulled it off the fire and poured, watching Mr. Frodo wrap his hands around his mug and breathe the steam before he sipped. Mr. Frodo's lashes caught the gilding of the fire, and his cheeks were painted with a warm, ruddy glow that might have been all firelight, or might have been a blush lingering from Sam's song. Sam felt his heart swell, and he had to turn back to making the scones before his face betrayed him. 

It was almost too much for him to hold inside himself, the joy that whispered mornings like this might be his to look forward to for all the days he could imagine. 

As he worked to stir, he began to hum again, creaming together the butter and sugar and adding an egg. The Sun lifted her face over the horizon and lit the window, where dewdrops shimmered like diamond and pearl. 

"It's going to be a lovely day," Frodo spoke, so softly Sam almost failed to hear him. 

"Yes, sir," Sam agreed, mixing in the pumpkin and the flour. "It is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is not of my composing, and is a traditional Welsh tune, but the website I originally copied it from has vanished.


	28. Helping Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lives hang on the decisions of an instant.

Sam balanced the heavy wicker basket against his hip, tucking a loaf of Daisy's best light-flour bread swirled with almond paste into the end with the fragile items Mr. Frodo had already bought. The morning was warm and the air was heavy and wet, mists still clearing from around the hollows, and every leaf and blade of grass still wet from a soaking rain. There wasn't even any dust in the market, though Sam's feet were dirty from the wet ground. 

He hadn't never felt no finer, following along after Mr. Frodo as he went darting through the crowd. Frodo liked getting out to talk with people and buy things, but he weren't stout enough to carry everything Bag End needed, not all by himself in just one trip. So Sam had been dispatched to help, which meant getting to watch Mr. Frodo haggle and listening to him chatter with friends and even getting to share an opinion or two of his own on which were the best produce to buy to meet Mr. Bilbo's exacting standard, and how much it was rightly worth. 

It was good having the chance to look at Mr. Frodo and be near enough to hear him talk and see the light catch the fine down on his cheek-- all the while knowing his Gaffer wouldn't haul him up by an ear. And Mr. Frodo seemed to be enjoying himself too, which was even better. Usually he kept most of the market's width between himself and Sam and kept his head down and his eyes on whatever he was buying, always staying a fair piece from the Gamgees' stall unless he had strictly proper business there. Not today, though. Today he was chewing a ripe pear and wandering about freely, laughing. 

Sam could see tendrils of hair curling wet at Mr. Frodo's neck, and that made his hands itch to brush them free, but he knew enough not to-- his Gaffer was right; a new position up at the smial didn't change his place enough for him to offer that sort of sauce, even if he wanted. 

He contented himself with carrying his burden until Marigold appeared out of the crowd and set herself in front of him, all wild-flying curls and cheek. "Gaffer said if you hadn't forgot who you was, seeing as how it's too wet to work the garden today, he was going to see if Tom Cotton needed you to help them move some of those rocks out of that hill-field he plowed for the first time this past spring." 

Sam nodded, ignoring her sauce; he'd seen Jolly and his brothers going off to work with spades and mattocks slung over their shoulders as he come down. "I reckon they will; I'll take a spade or a pick out of the tool-shed up at Bag End and go straight over." 

Mr. Frodo stood nearby, fingering some nice heavy cloth, maybe thinking of winter breeches or a coat. It was of good quality, spun fine and even, and the weave was tight, though it was Shire-stuff and not fancy brocades or velvets such as him and Mr. Bilbo often favored. 

"Will you be needing me after we carry the parcels up the Hill, sir?" 

Frodo's head came up quickly. He blinked as his face moved into the sun. "Not if you have something else to do." 

"I reckon Farmer Cotton needs all the strong backs he can get up in that new field." Sam shrugged. 

"I was finished here anyway," Frodo told Sam, smiling a little. "We'll head up now." 

The mistress of the fabric stall scowled at Sam for distracting Mr. Frodo, but Sam couldn't care, not with Mr. Frodo's lips curved so soft and shy with pleasure. Mr. Frodo hardly remembered to nod at her as he began to walk away with Sam. Sam could have told her it weren't good enough for a Baggins to wear, but she'd not listen, so he kept his peace and reckoned he'd have to take a scolding later. 

"There's no hurry if you have more marketing to do." Sam marveled at how easily the words flowed between them. Only a week or two ago, clouds and despair would have hung over them too thick to permit any such exchange, but now... so long as they kept to discussing Sam's work, it all seemed as easy as it had before the Gaffer ever sent Sam off to Tighfield. 

"No, I'd finished," Frodo admitted. "I'm just taking the air." There was still just a flicker of nervousness about him, showing mainly in his eyes, which didn't laugh as much as they used to. Nowadays, he always looked grave at Sam, as though to make sure nothing was amiss-- or mayhap to be sure that nobody saw nothing amiss in his look, if they were watching. 

Sam nodded. "If it's no trouble, I thought I might pick up a mattock or a spade out of the shed up on the Hill to use moving rocks." Frodo began walking out of the market and Sam followed. 

Frodo nodded at him absently, swinging his arms and stretching. "Of course. You don't have to ask." A flash of warmth from his eyes made Sam feel like singing. 

"They plowed up that bit of field on the steep, you know the one. I don't hold with them doing it; the rain washes all the dirt away and they won't grow naught there in a year or two, not even hay, but Farmer Cotton wanted to try a thing he calls 'terraces' and that were the only part of his land that seemed to suit," Sam explained. "Most of what they grew there this summer seems to be rocks, if you ask me." He pointed up to the field as they rounded a bend; Jolly and his brothers were toiling in the sun, piling up stacks of rocks, with Nibs and Farmer Cotton himself loading them and carting them off in a waggon for all the world like huge heavy taters. 

Mr. Frodo laughed to see it, and Sam found himself chuckling along, enjoying the easy thrill of it. So Mr. Frodo would laugh for him, if they were alone! This was easier than he'd thought; why, he'd even forgot to touch his cap this morning, and yet Mr. Frodo didn't seem to miss it none! He'd have to thump Jolly for being so shrewd-- and then thank him. 

He was looking forward to a pleasant stroll up the Hill with his master when around the corner came none other than Mr. Frodo's cousin, Angelica Burrowes. She held a dainty parasol held over her head, with frills attached, and she wore skirts that were hemmed short enough to show her slender ankles in their fussy leather buttoned-up shoes. Altogether she looked a rare foolish sight. Frodo made a small sound in the back of his throat that might have been a throttled laugh. 

"Sam, you'll have to go on without me," Frodo murmured, and plastered on his best 'company smile' as he stepped forward to take Angelica's hand. "So good to see you," he said to her smoothly enough to let Sam know his good temper lingered. Sam knew he'd best not dawdle, though-- it was one thing for him to take up part of Mr. Frodo's load, but it would be quite another for him to stay like he thought he'd a right to pass the time of day with Angelica himself, just to be sure of walking on up the road at Mr. Frodo's side. 

He shifted the basket to his right arm and kept walking, humming to himself and glancing up at the Sun to judge the time. Still half the morning left; plenty of time for him to go help Jolly and still come about Bag End later when things dried out, to tend to trimming the grass and making sure the hedge didn't need clipping already, and to harvest a few taters and carrots out of the garden. 

He could see Jolly and the lads working just the hill; they were laughing and joking to make the job go faster. Spending his morning with Frodo had been pleasant, but spending some time with them would go down well, Sam judged. His old dad might think he'd got above himself, but he didn't mind hard work. 

Sam was just passing by Daddy Twofoot's garden gate when he heard a clatter from inside, paired with glass breaking and a scream. 

He paused, hoping nothing was untoward, and so he was watching when Violet Twofoot flung herself out through the front door even though she was barely old enough to reach the knob, screaming like she was being murdered. Alarmed, Sam set Mr. Frodo's basket down out of the road and hurried to let himself in to the yard and go to her. 

"Now Violet, what--" 

"Pansy went to light the lamp like she wasn't supposed to, and it fell over and it's on fire!" She flung herself at Sam and latched onto his knee; her petticoat was smudged with a burn mark. 

Sam jerked his head up, alarmed; he could see flames flickering and groaned; his family was friendly with the Twofoots, and he'd spent many an evening inside their smial. There was a rug in the parlor, and the smial had a wood floor and all manner of drapes and wood lining the walls, and clothes hung everywhere such as would burn. "Who's still inside?" 

"Just Pansy; she run back to fetch the babe--" 

Pansy was older than Violet, but not by much more than a year, and Sam didn't stop to hear no more. "You stay here. Stay out, mind!" He darted inside, taking stock. The lamp oil had gone everywhere, and the whole carpet was a lake of flame. It had spattered on to the walls and furnishings, too, and curtains and chairs were kindling as he watched. 

Sam snatched his shirt up over his mouth, blinking furiously against stinging smoke. "Pansy?!" There weren't no answer. 

He darted forwards before the flames could go any higher, feeling his shins tighten in the heat as he took two quick steps over the flaming carpet. Smoke was pooling on the ceiling and pouring back into the rear of the smial, drawn down the hall by a draught, maybe from a chimney somewhere. Sam folded his shirt as best he could to shield his mouth. Smoke could overcome you before you knew and choke the breath out of you; he'd heard tell of it a dozen times or more, and even seen the evidence of it once, when he was just a lad. 

Falling to his knees to avoid the worst of it, Sam crawled hastily back into the hall, pushing open doors and shouting, his throat turning raw in the bad air. "Pansy? Give a shout!" She weren't hardly eight, Pansy weren't, and she wouldn't know what to do nohow. He didn't know where the cradle was, and he was half turned around in the dark of the hole. He could hear the fire starting to roar in earnest behind him, and of a sudden he heard the baby's cry. 

That guided him; he scampered down the hall on hands and knees, choking, listening till he judged it was loudest. Sam pushed the door open and crawled inside. "Pansy Twofoot?" 

A low wail answered-- Sam stood up in the dark and stumbled forward. It wasn't so smoky in here, so he could still breathe standing up, stubbing his toes and hands on scattered furniture. 

By touch in the pitch-black room, he found the wooden wardrobe where they'd huddled. "You can't hide from it," he reached in, prying Pansy out. She was sobbing with the baby clasped in her arms, though she couldn't hardly lift her little sister, she was so young. "We've got to get out. Come on, Pansy. No, crawl on the floor." Sam remembered where he'd hit the bed and rushed over to it, snatching off blankets. "You do just what I say." He rushed back to the door-- it was hot, but the Twofoots didn't have no back door and this was an inside room, dug back deep in the hill, and there wasn't naught for it but to try to get back out the way he'd come. 

"Hang back just a bit, then come when I shout," Sam told her, trying to sound reassuring as he swathed the babe in a blanket to protect her and folded another around his head and shoulders. That fire would have taken the whole parlour by now, or he was a Took. There'd be nothing for it but to clasp the girls to his breast and run, and hope he made it out before he fell. 

"Come here, Pansy!" He pulled her against his side under the blanket and flung the door open, ignoring the burn the knob left on his palm, before scooping her up and making ready to plunge out. 

Flame roared, a solid wall cutting the hall off from the parlor. The tongue-and-groove boards that lined the hole were already ablaze overhead. Heat staggered Sam to his knees, and he knew the blanket wouldn't be enough protection. Not nearly enough. He threw the door shut again to give them a second. "Pansy, is there a window anywhere farther down the hall? Don't cry, child, tell me!" 

She didn't answer, clinging to him and sobbing. He couldn't remember ever seeing none on the bank, and staying here wasn't helping naught. Every second he delayed, the fire worsened. 

Sam took a deep choking breath and snatched Pansy up, curling her under the pitiful protection of the blanket next to her sister, steeling himself to run, and snatched the knob open, feeling it near brand his palm. This time flames licked the back of the door and the sides of the frame; runnels of fire tracing down the hall as he watched, lurching towards-- 

"SAM!" Frodo's voice pierced the roar of the flames, full of desperate terror. Faint, then louder-- farther down the hall and into the hill. Impossible, but he'd never disobeyed that voice, and he weren't about to start now. If Frodo had followed him--! Sam turned, nearly falling, feeling the vicious heat envelop him as the blanket kindled. Again, that voice-- and he staggered towards it, flinging himself through a set of doorposts with no door between them. He tumbled on to the floor inside the room, lungs screaming for air, and batted the smoldering blanket off his head-- and there was sunlight, a crumbled hole in the wall through a splayed bulge in the boards. Boards splintered as he watched, and Frodo was silhouetted there, alongside Jolly, reaching desperately through for him. 

Sam leaped up and plunged for it, snatching at the boards with his free hand and jerking them down. He realized dimly that Pansy was shrieking, and ignored it. 

"It's like a chimney," Frodo snapped, snatching the baby as Sam fumbled her over. "The draught's drawing the fire. Jolly, the hole's not big enough!" He vanished, and Sam looked back-- the fire roared like a murdering demon, licking fingers around the doorframe and sucking right into the room, coarse black smoke billowing. 

There was a thud and crack and Sam heard earth fall; the hole widened another hand's breadth. He shoved Pansy through it and into Frodo's arms, with her squalling so loud she near drowned out the flames. Fire was licking along the walls now, and the floor, and he could feel his skin singeing as it drew near. 

"Hurry, Jolly," he rasped, watching Pansy's heels vanish through the hole. Another swing of the mattock widened the hole, and another. He tore at the wall, trying to pull enough boards down that he might fit through when the digging was widened, not caring when nails and splinters made gouges in his hands and arms. 

Sam's shirt kindled and he smacked at its stinging bite; his eyes were streaming so bad he couldn't hardly see the hole. "Now!" he croaked, and flung himself at the light; hands caught him, dragging at him, the fire searing at his very heels. He nearly hung halfway through, but then Jolly heaved and he popped out like a cork from a bottle, tumbling over and over in the grass with hands slapping at his clothes to put them out. 

"Get back!" an unfamiliar voice called; flame roared angrily out at the hole. Hands tugged at him; he couldn't even see whose. His eyes were streaming and choked with cinders. 

"Sam!" That voice he knew, and those hands were cool on him. "Sam, Sam...." Those gentle hands kept touching him, pulling off shards of splintered wood and brushing off dirt, careful and soothing. 

"I heard you," he managed to whisper, his lungs burning like they were on fire. "I heard you calling." 

"Get Widow Rumble." Frodo snapped to someone else, voice tight and frantic. 

"She's off at a birthing." 

"Then get someone else!" Distress and anger filled Frodo's voice that Sam knew he didn't mean. "And get a cart. We'll take him up to Bag End." 

"I'm all right," Sam tried to croak, but he couldn't force air through his raw throat, and he let his eyes close, resting safe in Frodo's arms.


	29. Caring Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is tended by those who love him best.

Looking into that fire and hearing it roar like it meant to burn up the whole hill, I'd thought we'd never see Sam alive again. I reckon we almost didn't, but here he was and there weren't no time to dither or to feel no relief, because he was burnt, and such injuries ought to have quick care. 

Dad went off like an arrow and came driving the waggon down on to the Road, it jolting and rattling and the ponies running and all. Before it hardly even got stopped, I jumped up with Tom and we started throwing rocks off right there in the Road, with smoke blowing past. 

Mr. Frodo tore off his coat and I did the same with my shirt, and we made Sam a rough pallet of sorts-- cleaner than the bed of the waggon, by all accounts. Six of us laid Sam in it on his belly, which was the least burnt part of him, and we hauled him up to Bag End with Mr. Frodo driving and me sitting in the back to keep Sam still. It was starting to hurt him, I could tell, by how he hung on hard to my hand. Mr. Frodo drove slow enough that the bounces were gentle, but Sam was biting his lips by the time we got there, his face all screwed up tight. 

He didn't look too bad off, at least not outside-- he was burnt some, for certain, but mostly not too bad, and not all over, with his shoulders being the worst, and his arms and feet next after. There weren't no telling how bad his lungs might be, for he wasn't breathing right, and that's what worried me. He was coughing a good deal and couldn't talk proper, not that I'd let him try no more. 

I couldn't stop my stomach from turning over and over like I might lose everything I ever ate, for without Mr. Frodo's quick thinking, he'd almost surely have died in there, that's a fact, and Pansy and the babe with him. 

The waggon rattled up the Hill with at least a quarter of the hobbits from Hobbiton pattering along after, and then come to a careful stop in front of the gate at Bag End. 

"We'll lift him out," I suggested. "Maybe he can walk and maybe he can't, but with us all here, there ain't no need for him to try." 

Mr. Frodo opened up the smial and we carried Sam inside, trying our best not to jostle him as we staggered down the hallway, puffing, each with a share in his weight. 

"Here." Frodo led us down the hall to one of the last rooms. "He'll do better on a hard mattress; his skin needs the air and he'd sink too deep into feathers." 

He'd feel more at home on one such as he slept in every night too, I'll warrant, but I didn't say so. I just helped settle Sam on to the mattress. He whimpered a little, coming down, and Mr. Frodo's face went white. 

"Burns hurt worse than anything I know," I said, wishing it weren't so, "but his ain't too bad, seemingly." 

Mr. Frodo shooed the others out, sending Nibs to hunt for the wizard, who might be in the Ivy Bush or might be over visiting at Tuckborough, he didn't know which. 

"You think they aren't?" He squeezed his lower lip between his teeth, looking worried. 

"I've seen hobbits live through a lot worse." Some of them it would've been a mercy if they hadn't, but I didn't mention that. Mr. Frodo weren't here the last time there was a neigborhood fire, but I'd been a little lad, and the sight of those as had come out-- and those few as hadn't, till after-- was branded on the insides of my eyelids like I could still see them today. 

I was a lot more worried about the wheeze in Sam's lungs, and that was a fact. He'd breathed up a lot of heat and smoke in there, and that could kill a body just as quick or quicker than being burnt on the outside. 

Still, I could see Mr. Frodo pulling himself together, so maybe my clumsy talk helped. 

"We should clean him up, if we can. Burns are prone to fester, if the skin breaks." He sounded like he was quoting something from memory, almost, though the words were plain. 

"That's a fact. He ain't got none of the real bad kind, seemingly. His skin ain't charred black from what I can see without cleaning him up, but he's got blisters. I--" I hesitated. "I'll go fetch a bucket of water. You get them clothes off him. Sir." I'd almost forgot I weren't talking to no equal, we were both so worried for Sam. 

He just nodded, not even seeming to notice I'd been giving out orders, and rummaged in a drawer for a knife or scissors with hands that ought to have shook, but held right steady. 

I quit watching him and hurried out; when I come back with two full buckets in my hands, he was gently peeling away Sam's breeches where he'd cut them. They were singed right through in patches, like Sam's shirt was. Mr. Frodo left them lying under Sam's body. 

I couldn't take my eyes from his hands for a moment; he still weren't shaking and he moved gentle and delicate. Nobody alive could have got those ruined clothes off Sam and hurt him any less doing it, I reckon. 

"You're right. He isn't as bad as it looked," Mr. Frodo murmured to me without looking up. I nodded; I'd had my chance to peer at him in the waggon. 

Sam coughed, and Mr. Frodo's hand settled on his back, light as a feather and not touching none of the burned spots, to steady him. "Jolly, fetch a glass from the kitchen. He needs a drink." 

I rushed to do it, but before I could get back Mr. Bilbo hustled in, puffing and all of a sweat like he'd run all the way from Bywater. He squinted to find me lurking in his hallway. 

"Wilcome Cotton?" He knew me right away, though we hadn't never exchanged more than a word or two. 

"Yes sir, Mr. Bilbo." I might forget where I stood to Mr. Frodo for a moment, knowing things about him as I did, but never Mr. Bilbo. "I'm helping Mr. Frodo tend to Sam Gamgee. You heard about the fire?" 

"I couldn't miss it. The Twofoot hole is spouting smoke so high you can see it in Frogmorton." Mr. Bilbo looked at the glass in my hand. "Well, get on about what you're doing," he flapped his hands. "Was Sam badly hurt?" He followed after me. 

"He's a bit burnt, and he breathed a lot of hot smoke, but he got the girls out." 

"I saw them. Their parents were sobbing louder than they were. I'll go get down my books on herb-lore." Mr. Bilbo bustled away and I hurried back to join Mr. Frodo, filling a glass from one bucket. 

Together we got Sam set up to have a drink; it was a slow, difficult thing, but he wasn't so burned on his backside that he couldn't sit, at any rate. 

He was as bare as the day he was born-- and about the time he was starting to swallow, it come to me that I hadn't seen him so, not since we were children dabbling in the creek together with some of the other local lads. I hadn't seen him in less than an open shirt and open breeches since then, not even since we'd been together. 

It struck me funny, in a painful way, that I was seeing him the way I'd yearned for at last-- but it was under Mr. Frodo's eye, and Sam was too hurt to do aught about it even if it weren't. Now weren't the time for gazing, sure enough. 

Mr. Frodo had to be thinking much the same, but he didn't show it. Between us, I knew we wouldn't shame Sam none if we could help it. 

Sam swallowed, deep and painful, his breath rasping in between gulps. His eyes were closed, but still wet and running. Mr. Frodo steadied the glass for him as he swallowed, and I cleared the rags of Sam's burnt clothes off the bed, glancing up to find Mr. Frodo looking across Sam to me. 

"Jolly, perhaps he would rather have you wash him." His voice was very steady. 

I felt a tight knot come in my throat that didn't have naught to do with how close Sam come to dying in that fire. I waited till Mr. Frodo took away the glass and Sam finished swallowing before I answered. "I don't reckon he'd make much difference between either of us, Mr. Frodo, so let's do it together." 

Mr. Frodo's face didn't change none when I spoke, and Sam didn't protest nor look up at neither of us, so I reckon he hurt too much to pay us any mind. Either that or he was so dithered what with being bare in front of Mr. Frodo, he'd just hid himself away. 

I peeled back the top coverlet as much as I could with Sam still sitting on it; the soot off his clothes had soiled its bright yellow. Mr. Frodo went to the buckets. "We won't warm this; the cool water will help draw the heat out of his burns." He opened a drawer and ripped up a piece of his own clothing. One of his fine shirts, whisper-thin and soft and fresh-washed, it would go easy on Sam's skin. I'd never even touched such a thing, and yet he didn't give a second thought to ripping it up, not for Sam. 

Mr. Frodo wet his cloth till it was sopping and went to kneel at Sam's side on the mattress, reaching tender-like for his face. I couldn't help but steal glances even as I followed. 

He wiped Sam's eyes, curving the crook of his arm about Sam's neck and pulling open his lids with his fingers, then dribbling water in to wash out the cinders. Sam's eyelashes were well-nigh gone, frizzled away, and his eyes were red. He blinked and held still, teeth sunk in his lip; Mr. Frodo moved ginger and careful, trying not to rest no weight on Sam's burnt shoulders. His shirt had been tightest there, I reckon, and the heat from the flames had found the skin faster there than they had where the cloth was loose. 

I was ready to start my own part by the time Mr. Frodo switched eyes, and I began with Sam's feet. They were burnt a good deal worse than his legs; all his hair was singed off his legs and off the tops of his feet where he'd run through fire to get out, and there were blisters around the edges of his feet and on top of them. He hadn't burnt through his tough-callused soles, though, for he didn't flinch when I wiped them. That was something. He'd be walking again right soon, and that would make him feel a deal better, I judged. 

I washed away burnt hair, smelling the nasty bitter scent of it, and my heart like to have burst for pity, knowing I had to be hurting him. Mr. Frodo was too, for all his care, and he knew it, to judge by his pale face. Still, he didn't go hesitating or staring, and he weren't shy nor squeamish of the angry red and white blisters where Sam was burnt... but he couldn't have touched fine china with no more care or reverence. His hands slid up Sam's arms, leaving cleaner skin and a gleam of water in their wake, while I worked at Sam's legs, kneeling on the floor to do it. 

Sam winced, and I didn't know which of us caused it, but Mr. Frodo bit his lip, white teeth savaging the pink flesh. "I'm sorry, Sam, but there's cloth burned on to the skin here, and we don't want it getting infected." He kept on, trying to be even more gentle than before. 

Sam nodded and firmed his jaw, and my eyes met his glazed ones, and I could see both a pain and a trembling in him like I'd never seen before-- the pain of the burns on his skin and the wide-eyed trembling of being naked before Mr. Frodo, with Mr. Frodo's hands on him. But even then, I knew the look in his eyes for a good thing; sometimes folks don't pull back right from such a scare and such a hurting. They go all numb and hide inside where naught can reach them, and there are some as don't come out again right easy. 

The panic in Sam's eyes meant he was alive and with us, though maybe I should have took on the whole job myself after all. At least Mr. Frodo was behind him now, working on his back and shoulders, so he couldn't see it-- 

"Don't talk," I started, seeing his lips come open, but Mr. Frodo beat me to it. 

"Hush," he breathed. "It's going to be all right, Sam." Maybe he'd seen my eyes, or maybe he'd felt something through Sam's skin, but he could tell as well as I did that Sam was afraid now, like maybe he hadn't been when he dove into that fire. 

In spite of my assurance that Sam wouldn't mind his hands, Mr. Frodo left me to care for the parts of Sam I had more familiarity with than he did, so to speak, and that told me a thing or two right off that I wished Sam's own Gaffer could know. If you don't care for someone aught more than you care for his body, you don't go passing up a chance like that, I reckon, not and leave your rival the job. 

At any rate, that's how we washed him-- arms and legs and back and even his belly, getting the soot and the smoke off him and finding each place the flames had touched his skin. 

"I've found an Elvish recipe for burn salve," Mr. Bilbo hustled in. "We've got what we need right in the garden. I'll fetch it and mix it, and we can put it on him. Where is Gandalf?" 

"I sent Nibs to fetch him." Mr. Frodo's voice was taut. "He can help, can't he?" 

"If he can't, nobody can." Mr. Bilbo was gone again that fast, and by the time Frodo and I had finished washing Sam he was back with a mortar and a pestle. "This won't smell good, but it draws heat and it won't let him fester," Mr. Bilbo worked his pestle, grinding up the herbs, adding them a little by a little. "We'll need more of it than there is in the kitchen garden." 

Sam began coughing again, nearly pitching forward, and Mr. Frodo steadied him. "Jolly, give him some more water." 

"Yes, sir." I hurried to fill the glass again while Mr. Frodo gave Sam a pillow to clutch against his chest. He was hovering, helpless, when I came back, one hand gentle on Sam's back and the other clasped over his unburnt left hand. When Sam had his breath back again he drank; his face was red like he'd had too much sun. He nearly choked on his last swallow, and I took the glass away. He folded up around the pillow again, working at breathing. 

"Wilcome, you're bleeding," Mr. Bilbo said suddenly, and when I looked down at my arm, I found it was true. Sam looked up too, his eyes red and bleary. 

"It's naught," I said stoutly, and didn't let my look flicker to Mr. Frodo. Mr. Bilbo stepped close, still mashing at his herbs, and I realized my shame for the first time-- I didn't have no shirt on, having used it to pad the waggon for Sam. 

"He'll need tending too," Mr. Frodo said softly. "I suspect he's bruised as well." 

"He is. That looks like a..." Mr. Bilbo leaned in close, never stopping his work on the contents of the mortar. "A bite. What in the world?" 

"I bit him." Mr. Frodo said, as quiet as you please, without no hedging. 

"You had reason." I felt myself flush. "I thought you'd throw yourself right into the hole after--" I had to change my words right quick, realizing who I was speaking in front of-- "the little ones, just the way Sam did, and it wouldn't have done no good." He would have, too, though I'll wager it weren't them he was most worried about. I'd barely caught him in time, coming from up the hill as I was. I'd had to vault the fence and snatch his waist, and I barely caught him at the threshold. 

Mr. Bilbo didn't seem to notice, but I knew Mr. Frodo had caught the small hesitation and the change. His eyes caught mine for a second, then flickered away. "I suppose I would have, at first." Light, his voice, making a nothing of his real feeling. "But then I saw the chimney-pipe coming out of the hill, and I thought we might open up the hill and break into a room away from the fire so they could come out without having to come through the front parlour." 

"I didn't know his mind, so I wouldn't let him go," I told Mr. Bilbo, without mentioning Mr. Frodo had been all the while flailing and fighting and yelling like a wildcat in a trap, fists and heels beating against me while I kept him from hurling himself right into the parlour, which was burning like the inside of a smith's forge. Sam might well have died in there, and I knew it, but I'd fought knowing Sam wouldn't never forgive me in this life or the next if I let his Mr. Frodo do such as that. 

I kept my peace; Mr. Bilbo would hear of it soon enough from tongues that weren't near as tactful as my own. Like as not he'd hear right away it wasn't Pansy Twofoot Mr. Frodo screamed for when we broke through, neither. 

"Luckily, Jolly was working in the field right up the Road, and he had a mattock with him, or we couldn't have dug in time." Mr. Frodo's voice were steadier than his eyes. 

"The other lads dropped theirs," I allowed. "I don't know what possessed me to keep mine." 

"It's a good thing you did." Mr. Frodo's eyes met mine again, too-bright. 

"I let go when he bit me and he snatched the mattock and went after knocking down the hill." I watched Mr. Frodo touch the glass to Sam's lips again as I told the tale. In truth, he'd snatched it up and flung himself at the smial like a mad thing, already swinging a roundhouse blow that flew so hard the weight of the iron blade nearly pulled him over. He'd barely made a dent at all, him not knowing the proper way to use the tool, but I'd been right behind him and took it from him without so much as a by-your-leave, and started digging in earnest. "I seen the chimney-pipe then, and figured what he was doing. So I helped." 

Mr. Bilbo shook his head. "The two of you excavated half the Hill, by the looks of it." 

"Jolly dug while I shouted. I didn't think we'd get through the boards." Mr. Frodo's hand trembled suddenly. "Sam said he heard us." 

_Heard you,_ I corrected him silently. _Heard you and come for you, maybe afraid you'd run in after, as much as thinking you'd found some way to get him out._

__

__

Mr. Bilbo shook his head. "First things first, but I'll tend that before you go, Wilcome." 

"Let him stay," Mr. Frodo said, quiet-like. "He can help tend Sam." 

"We won't need him after Gandalf comes. And we'll have the Gaffer up here, all the girls, and Daddy Twofoot, and Farmer Cotton too before we can finish with Sam, if I don't miss my guess." 

Mr. Frodo tossed his soot-stained washclout towards the buckets. "That's as may be. Is that salve ready?" 

"It should be. I'll start another batch." Mr. Bilbo left the mortar and hurried out. 

Mr. Frodo caught my eye, and we both dipped our fingers into the salve, splitting the task of covering Sam just as we had before. He was breathing hard, high-pitched and keening, like the air wasn't doing its job inside his chest, and it made my eyes sting to listen to it and to feel his trembling as we touched his hurts. 

Together we tended all his burns and then settled him on his belly again with his burnt feet hanging over the edge. Mr. Frodo looked distraught, his face white and pinched, and I could tell he didn't like the sound of Sam's breath no better than I did, but I reckoned there weren't nothing for it except to wait and see if he bided well or no. 

About that time the wizard come and he bustled right in, bending his head under the doorpost, and hurried to lay his hands on Sam. Mr. Frodo backed right up and let him at Sam in a way that said more than I'd have expected about his faith in the old man's knowing. Old Mr. Gandalf laid his hand right in the middle of Sam's back, but didn't do much more than that; he just stood with his eyes closed. 

Now, you may think me a fool when I say this, but I'll stand by it. It might have been wistful thinking or wizardry either one, but I'll swear it till my dying day: Sam's breath eased even as the old wizard come inside the room. What with Mr. Gandalf touching him, he lost most of that desperate whistle and rasp, and I might have cried then and there for pure relief-- and that's when I lost my fearing of Old Mr. Gandalf and his conjuring, I reckon. I won't hear a word spoke against him no more, and that's flat. 

"Will he be all right?" Frodo's very heart was in his voice, all unknowing. 

A silence followed as old Mr. Gandalf eyed Sam and then took a pinch of the salve between one thumb and finger, holding it up to his nose for a sniff. 

Mr. Gandalf's eyes turned to me then, sharp-like, and I thought he'd throw me out. But he didn't; he just nodded and turned back to Sam. 

"He will. I couldn't have given his burns better care myself," he judged, and Mr. Frodo come near to collapsing from relief, I reckon, his eyes closing and a long sigh coming out. "I'll make an infusion to boil, and he can breathe the vapor." 

Frodo nodded, intent. 

"You'll need to replace that salve on his burns three times a day for the next few days, and give him all he will drink. And let him cough, when he needs to, until tomorrow-- then he should cough regularly whether he wants to or not, and try to bring up any fluid in his lungs. And let me know at once if you find any blood on the kerchief." He gathered his mantle up about him, folding his arms. 

"I'll see to the infusion, if I can find the proper herb." His voice dropped and he drew Frodo aside. "He should sleep, if he can. Don't give him poppy for his pain, even if he can't sleep. Poppy will make it more difficult for him to breathe. A little strong willow-bark tea is all you should give him." 

Mr. Frodo hurried off to get something and I thought the wizard would go out, but he looked at me again and frowned for all the world like he were looking right _through_ me, then stepped over to lift up my arm. His old hands were gentle, for all of how big he were. Reaching quick, he took the little pot of salve and tore off a corner of that shirt. He washed my arm, frowning at it absent-like, then spread some of Mr. Bilbo's salve over it. "Be sure to take care of this," he told me, right sharp, and shot me another look I couldn't read. "Bites often fester." I could already feel some of the sting fading and I nodded my thanks. 

He tore a strip or two off the shirt and bound up the wound, then nodded, satisfied. Mr. Frodo was back by then with a heavy kettle, which he put over the ready-laid fire, and then reached for a taper to light it. 

I heard Mr. Gandalf mutter then, something I couldn't make out, and I blinked, hearing a low thumping sound that made me flinch. When I looked the fire was burning bright and hot on the hearth like it had been lit a half-hour, for all the wood was cold not a second before! Mr. Frodo didn't say naught, but laid down his taper and started in fussing with the fire-screen, setting it close so that part of the heat would go right up the flue and not come out into the room. 

It fair sent a shiver down my spine, it did. Not just from the conjury, but to see those bright flames there, and think how strange it were that this thing dancing in the hearth nearly took Sam from us, but now it would boil the tea to ease his pain. 

The wizard went out without another word, leaving Mr. Frodo looking down on Sam with a sheen of tears in his eyes. He stepped towards Sam as I watched, fingertips stretching out, then caught himself and looked aside at me, pulling back his hand. 

"You just go ahead and touch him all you want," I told him awkwardly, watching his cheeks flush in answer. "He'll find it a comfort." The words like to have stuck in my throat, but I forced them out, stubborn. His blush called my attention for the first time to the smudges on his face. He was filthy with dirt and soot, his fine clothes ruined. "I reckon I'll step out and see to that willow-bark while the kettle heats," I told him. "Where do you keep it?" 

"In a basket on the third shelf of the kitchen cabinet, over the dish-tub and to the right. I think three curls should be enough." Mr. Frodo took a deep breath. "Thank you, Jolly." His eyes fixed me, earnest. "For everything." 

I nodded, not hardly trusting myself to answer. "I'll bring that back, then I reckon I'd best see to some of them folk Mr. Bilbo talked about," I told him hoarsely. "They'll be wanting a report." 

He just nodded, and as I went out, I could hear him creeping up on to the rustling corn-shuck mattress to sit next to Sam. Before I was to the pantry, I could hear him starting up a lullabye in what had to be Elvish. In his voice, there were a tone that brought tears to my eyes, just such a tender sweetness as I'd thought he might save for his _vanimelda._


	30. Loving Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam asks a question.

My whole world was a haze of pain for a long time-- searing pain all over my skin, which somehow didn't seem as bad as trying to get enough air into my chest. It didn't hold as much as it once did, seemingly, even if I pulled in so much it made my skin strain and ache fierce all over. 

I was a bit hazy in my mind then, mayhap because I couldn't breathe. I ain't sure how they got my clothes off me, although I expect Mr. Frodo and Jolly must have cut them off with a knife or a scissor. I do remember them washing me, me as naked as anything. Jolly knelt in front of me, his eyes filled with fear, and Mr. Frodo's hands were laid on my back and arms, and I couldn't get no air. I thought I might die like that, caught between the two of them, and what would they do then? 

I'd started feeling like there was a heavy stone sitting on my chest, and getting heavier, till I had to cough it off somehow. After that I don't remember much for a bit. I knew there were hands touching me, and mostly they made things better, but all I could think of was trying to get air inside me and back out again without choking. It was like trying to breathe while buried in water or earth, and I couldn't nohow. Then I couldn't even feel the hands no more, and that was the hardest-- coughing wrapped around a pillow. My sight turned red and there weren't naught but hurt in the whole world when that happened. 

I've never been so grateful as when I felt Mr. Gandalf come in the room and his hand fell on me. He did some kind of conjury, I reckon, for I eased up right away, and it ain't been so terribly bad since, though there's been a few moments of the same general sort that don't bear thinking on. 

I've had naught to do since it happened but lie here thinking. They can't give me much for pain, so I have to try to think, or else I'd just sit here making it hurt the worse for me not dwelling on naught else but the hurting and the wishing I could move about a bit. 

I'm spending quite a bit of my time thinking about Mr. Frodo. It's not surprising, I reckon, since he's been tending me. It's him and Jolly who take care of me, mostly, with Mr. Bilbo in his glory soaking up all the attention from visitors who can't come in here yet since I'm not strong enough to stand them and naked as a babe besides. Mr. Gandalf checks in every day to see that I'm better, but I know who's been here every time to put that salve on me, and who's held the pillow for me to cough in the night, and who sits by me on the mattress almost all the time, singing low under his breath. 

Somehow it just don't hurt so much when he sings. It's like he's got his arms around me and got me cradled against his breast, though he don't-- I'm too burnt for that, I reckon. But sometimes, when he sings that one song, his voice ever so low, I can slide along on the words of it and sleep, and when I dream I am in his arms, and he's telling me how much he loves me. 

I've woke from that with my cheeks wet a time or two, and he's noticed right off and bathed the tears away. I reckon he thinks I'm weeping from the hurt of being burnt, but truth be told, that ain't so bad no more, what with the salve they're using. Mr. Bilbo says it's an Elvish blend. 

Jolly helps Mr. Frodo and sits alone with me too, especially during the day or whenever Mr. Frodo has to step out to rest or tend to himself. He's a comfort of his own sort, telling me how my sisters and my Gaffer are doing, and he's almost as good at holding my pillow as Mr. Frodo, for all he don't sing. 

They let my Gaffer in to see me the second day, but he ain't been back, having said his piece about how I'd best mind and get better and having added that he loved me and was right glad I'd made it out. That made him and me both shed tears. I could tell he was nervous, being inside Bag End and all. What's more, he stayed while Mr. Frodo and Jolly washed me and put on new salve, being curious as he said to see how bad off I was, and I don't figure he felt too comfortable seeing Mr. Frodo hover over me like a hen with its chick. 

And that's just what he does, sitting against the headboard by my side or even lying curled up for a bit of sleep, waiting to help if I've got to cough and dosing me with willow-bark tea every few hours, or putting salve on me when it's needed. 

Just thinking of how he's cared for me is enough to make me tremble, and I'm glad I'm face-down so as I don't have to look at him all the while. I don't know if I could hide all the things in my heart when I think of how he tends after me. 

I've got myself all wrought up now, tense and restless, and his hand settles on one of the places he's chose for it, spots on my back where there ain't no burnt skin. He starts to sing that one song of his, low and lovely. I don't know whether it's more of a torment or more of a sweetness, but I know the words he's singing. I know every one by heart, and still don't know what more than one of them means, for all Mr. Gandalf told me it was some kind of love poem. I couldn't never make myself ask; I reckon I didn't want to be thinking he's written something for me, then learn he meant me to use it on Jolly or hear it was just something he copied out of a book because it looked pretty and he had to give me summat. 

Whenever I'm drinking in the sound in his voice, I don't think I have to ask no more, but then I'll sleep and when I wake up he's quiet, and I wonder all over again and decide I was only dreaming what I wanted to hear. 

There's a sweet scent in the air that blends just right with his song; right now there's some kind of herb steeping in a boiling kettle that makes it not so hard to breathe. Mr. Gandalf's doing, that. He was in just a bit ago, and said tomorrow I might sit up when I liked, or even walk around a bit if I pleased. He says it's good to have someone get on his feet again when he's hurt; it makes all the parts of him remember how to work proper even if it hurts. 

I hear footsteps and know it's Jolly, bringing a bite of food: real food for Mr. Frodo and broth for me. He's in and out a good deal, bringing medicine or words from well-wishers, or caring for such things as Mr. Frodo thinks he ought. I hope his dad can spare him from the field. 

It makes me more than a bit nervous, when they're both in here. I've caught a look or two passing between them when it come down to who'll do what. Tense and uncomfortable-like they stare at each other, and even if I can't see their faces I'll sometimes feel Mr. Frodo lift his hand off me or hear him move away. Now and again, Mr. Frodo makes himself scarce in the twinkling of an instant when most of the time you couldn't pry him out, I reckon-- Mr. Bilbo's tried, without no success. Then Jolly's the one who helps me with the chamber-pot, without making no fuss about it. 

I reckon I'd blush myself right into smoke if Mr. Frodo done that, so I'm right grateful-- and yet, somehow, it makes me feel sad. I don't reckon I'll ever have his hand on me no other way. 

I'd do it myself, but it's awkward. I can't hold both of the necessaries at once, for it makes my shoulders stretch, and besides, my right hand's burnt-- maybe burnt worse than any of the rest of me, the way Mr. Frodo fusses over it. He rubs salve into it twice as often as anywhere else, and he makes me stretch and curl my fingers even though it hurts. He's keeping that hand from stiffening up to where I can't use it. I don't want that to happen no more than he does, so I do it. But I reckon I'd do it for him even if I knowed it wouldn't do no good and if it hurt ten times as bad as it does. 

I can smell beef soup when Jolly comes in, and my stomach rumbles for it. Mr. Frodo stops his singing straight away and laughs to hear it. "Just a minute and we'll help you sit," he murmurs, and he gets off the mattress and goes to my feet. 

Him and Jolly lift me up quick; they've figured how to do it without hurting me any more than they must. Jolly's hands go right up under my shoulders and while he lifts and gets his knees onto the mattress to turn me, Mr. Frodo slips his arms under my knees and moves my legs about. Before I know it I'm sitting up, naked as the day I was born, and Jolly climbs off the bed. He holds the tray while Mr. Frodo feeds me, both of them calm and normal like neither one of them notices I ain't got nothing on. 

I could do this for myself, and I protested once, but they've told me not to talk, so I don't. I reach for the spoon with my left hand, but Mr. Frodo shakes his head and keeps on. There ain't nothing for it but to think it pleases him to be doing this for me. 

I look between the two of them, Mr. Frodo so slim and pale and beautiful and Jolly so strong and stout and dark from the sun, the both of them caring for me, each in his own way. I wonder what I ever done so good as to deserve such as this, and what I ever done so bad as to have to let one of them go and stop loving him. 

I eat the whole bowl of broth for Mr. Frodo because it makes him smile, and Jolly too, though he looks sad and I reckon I know what he's thinking. I catch his eyes and smile back, which makes sorrow blossom into joy on his face. But that puts a wistful light into Mr. Frodo's eyes, so that he turns his face away as he puts the spoon back in the bowl. Then Jolly closes his face up too, and he takes the bowl and lets himself out quick. 

I can't help but sigh. _Jolly Cotton, what about that pretty lass and all the little ones you say you want pattering about the smial?_ I won't ask him, but I know we've both played with fire, and his heart's been burnt just like my skin, I reckon. There ain't no remedy for it but to stop what I'm doing and settle my heart for good, one way or the other. 

Mr. Frodo goes to stir the boiling kettle to raise a steam and I watch him, the slim straight lines of him, and I know which of them is too good for me and which I ought to choose. But it's just who I can't, nohow, for I won't never forget the panic in Mr. Frodo's voice when he cried out for me that day. I won't never forget the sweetness in it when he sings. 

He catches me looking when he turns, and I reckon the look on my face alarms him a good bit, for he rushes over to me. "Do you need to lie back down?" 

I shake my head at him and try on a smile that don't fit too well. He bites at his lip like he don't know what to do, looking down at me all anxious. "Do the burns itch?" 

Well, they do, just a bit, and I know they'll get worse as they get better, so to speak, but I shake my head at him anyway. 

"Do you need--?" he flushes just a bit, and somehow I know he wouldn't call for Jolly this time, but I don't need to, and I won't be such a fool as to let on like I do, not and spit in the face of his kindness like that. I shake my head. 

He doesn't let up none, looking at me clear-eyed and waiting. I clear my throat, and he reaches for the pillow to help me cough, worry pinching a frown on his forehead, but I just shake my head and whisper, hoarse and husky like rust on metal. 

"Sing me that song again, Mr. Frodo, the one you wrote for me." I need to hear it; I need to know his heart, even if I can't never have him the way I could have Jolly. I need to know before I can go giving my whole heart to such a life as I can have at his side, where I might love for always without never getting to touch. I need to know that when I choose him, I won't be hurting Jolly for naught. 

His eyes close and he almost seems to tremble, lashes dark against a blush on his cheeks. "I'll get a brush and brush out your hair, Sam." 

He reaches for the bed-table and finds a brush and comb in the drawer there, then gently reaches out to me. He touches my hair, sorry mess that it is, scorched and full of soot and dirt, not washed in days. His voice moves soft in his chest; sound flows over my skin like water as he leans in, singing those Elvish words. _Vanimelda._

Me. 

The brush rustles through my hair soft and careful, and my skin tingles under the kiss of his breath. I might be hurt, but I ain't a stone; a flush dances through me in answer, shivering me and stirring just a little in a part of me that hasn't made itself known since the fire. 

"What does it mean?" I sound like a toad croaking next to a nightingale. "Please, sir?" 

He draws back and looks at me for a long time, then looks to the door, uncertain, then back to me, where I plead with him, using just my eyes. 

He sighs and something seems to leave him-- some resistance that's starched his spine all along, some tension held at the core of what he is. "This," he says simply as he leans in, lashes closing, and before I know it, his breath is sweet on my mouth and then his lips are soft on my lips, moving and clinging, his tongue brushing my lip for a heartbeat before he breaks away. His forehead touches mine and he shivers as he draws his breath, and I do too. I can feel the pulse fluttering in his wrist between my fingers, where my left hand has risen and found his arm to clasp. 

Then he pulls away and don't look at me no more; he goes and calls steady-like for Jolly. Together they wash me and put more salve on my hurts, splitting the task like they always do, and then they put me down again. 

But when Jolly leaves, Mr. Frodo sits back down here on the mattress by me, one hand on my back, and he sings.


	31. A Hedge of Thorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jolly spends an afternoon alone.

Something's happened. 

I can tell it right away. It's like the silence when a little one has _almost_ got caught doing something just as you come into a room; there's that same sense of held breath and thumping heart. 

I know Mr. Frodo called me a-purpose to help wash Sam and lay him back down, but he ain't looking Sam in the eye, and Sam's flushed in the face, and what's more, he's breathing too fast. Now his good hand rises up to touch his mouth, wondering-like. Ah, that's it then. A kiss. 

I can feel something flare dull and hot in my chest, like I've been hit just under my ribs. It hurts more than I was ready to bear. I want to touch Sam, need to hold him, and that's just the one thing I can't do. 

Mr. Frodo's breath is fast too, and his cheeks are pink, and I know I'm right. When he looks up at me, his face has gone all brittle-smooth again, like he was the first day Sam got burnt, when him and me didn't hardly know how to be in the same room together. He's got perfect control of himself, except his eyes are bright and there's something wild behind them, wild with hope and defiance. 

It don't surprise me. I've seen plenty of the way he's been after nearly losing Sam, seen something desperate and determined hiding behind his eyes and in the set of his jaw. I'd reckoned on something happening soon enough, but maybe not so quick, and maybe not right now. It's not the best of timing; after this, I won't feel wanted here at all, but I'm still needed. 

I help with the washing and the daubing, and then we lay Sam down, all three of us as stiff and nervous as new brides. I don't meet their eyes while I do it. It'll be easier on us all if they don't know I know. 

I meant for it to happen slower than this. When Sam got well enough he didn't need me no more, I meant to go out and start courting the lasses, maybe dance with a few at harvest festivals, and show Sam and everybody else I was just fine. I didn't want to court no more lads, but I'd thought it wouldn't be hard to find a nice girl to help fill this hole inside me before I had to give up him who made it. 

I thought it might be easier if I took the first step away. But there ain't no steps to be took, I reckon, seeing as how Sam's standing right at Mr. Frodo's side like he's always been, and I'm over on the other side of a thick hedge with my arm stuck through it, like I've always half-known I was, only I've been too much a fool to admit it. And me just learning how the hedge is full of thorn! 

I reckon I was too much a fool to know the hurt of what I promised when this all started. I was just wanting to spend time with Sam and wanting to see him joyful, not thinking what it would cost me to give that up once I had it. 

After we've laid Sam down his head turns, eyes seeking for Mr. Frodo across the room. Mr. Frodo don't look back. He's being careful. He's moving slow and graceful; he's calm and not showing naught anymore. His shoulders are tight, that's all. Has he got any idea what he's done? He ain't been out of the hole; he ain't heard the whispering about how mad Mr. Frodo went to throw himself into a furnace after his gardener lad. 

Still, Sam won't make the same mistake twice, no matter how close to his chest Mr. Frodo plays his cards. I taught him that myself, to look past Mr. Frodo's silence and see what's there. More fool you. 

As quiet as you please Mr. Frodo pours himself a glass of wine, and another for me. His fingers push the second glass across the cherry wood of the little table where the bottle sits, towards me. "Sam, would you like a swallow of wine? Just a little," he offers, and Sam makes a little pleased murmur. Mr. Frodo pours a bit into a clean tea mug and puts in a bit of cut reed so that Sam can drink it lying down, and he gives the mug to Sam before either of us touch our own. 

The wine is sweet, rich and fruitful, the best I've ever held on my tongue, but I've got to tell you straight: it tastes like wormwood in my mouth. I can't help but look at Mr. Frodo's lip resting on the crystal. It folds very softly under the rim; when he lowers his hand, his mouth is stained red with wine. I wonder what his mouth might taste like to Sam, and for the first time I realize it's as pretty as a girl's. 

A sudden flicker of heat shoots through me as my mind makes a picture of Sam and him lying together, naked and sweating and tangled, his legs wrapped around Sam's waist. I nearly choke on my swallow. That's a wicked thought, Jolly Cotton! It puts a heavy knot in my chest all the same. 

"The wine's very strong," I tell Mr. Frodo when he tilts his head to study me. I want out of the smial, and I want out now, and I don't never want to come back. I feel sick, and my head hurts. I need a cry, but I ain't doing it in front of him-- in front of them. 

"Mr. Frodo, can the two of you manage for a bit? My dad said he'll be needing me this afternoon." I'm proud of how calm it sounds; Mr. Frodo Baggins ain't the only one around here as can take a dose of bitter medicine without shaming himself. 

"I'm sure Bilbo will help, if we need it." Mr. Frodo's answer is slow, and his eyes are intent. He's checking to see if I'm upset, I reckon, wondering if I've caught them out. "Will you come back later?" Polite, so polite. 

"I'll come back after nightfall and take over, so you can get a bit of sleep." I meet him eye to eye, remembering how he's took orders from me for Sam's sake and how he's held back so long from what he wanted, thinking it was mine. Why did he pick this afternoon to stop? There's no telling at all. The only thing I'm sure of is Sam's heart. 

"If you'll excuse me, I'd best be going." The tears aren't wanting to wait and my steady voice won't last forever, so I let myself out before all the sorrow can escape. I wander down through the back garden and cross a few fields, circling about until I go off into the wood. 

I cross the creek and climb up the bank, wandering down into the little dell where Sam and I tumbled about together and Mr. Frodo saw us, just as Sam learned he wanted me. I curl up as tight as I can on the moss there, all alone. 

It's a long time before I lift myself up again and go to the creek to wash my face.


	32. Catching Snowflakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first snowfall of winter blankets the Shire.

Soft white flakes drifted down over the Shire, and for the first time in the season, the ground was cold enough that they lingered there, piling up on blades of grass and quivering on the limbs of shrubs and trees, slowly pushing them down towards the ground. 

Sam sat on the bench in the back garden at Bag End, puffing his pipe and watching the snow fall around him. It would mean a job of work for him presently, and he thought he could just about manage the shovel. He still had a twinge in his shoulders when he pulled the skin tight, and his breath could get short right quick, and he weren't allowed to lift no yokes bearing buckets of water across his shoulders. He carried buckets one at a time, and then in his left hand, but he'd made up his mind. By spring, his weakness would be a memory. Shoveling snow would be just the thing to get his neglected muscles working again. 

Sam knew there weren't hardly even a scar on him, what with the Elvish salve; just a speckling of pale and red spread across his legs and his shoulders. Mr. Gandalf said that would fade when he had a bit of sun, and Sam reckoned he could have as much as he liked of that, come next summer. No sense in going about with his shirt on like a maid no more, not after spending a month or more naked with Mr. Frodo tending his every need. 

He rubbed one foot over the top of the other, feeling the new growth of short hair prickle against the sole, ticklish-like. The cool felt good on his legs; he was cozy and snug inside his coat, with the warm smoke in his lungs. 

He weren't quite supposed to be smoking yet, so he'd crept out here to do it while Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo ate the breakfast he'd made them. 

Sam smiled a little, looking into the glow of the pipe's bowl. That had been the first thing he'd been allowed to do after the fire-- a bit of cooking. Not but what he'd been sent home when he was well enough to go, and spent a long week or more chafing to be back again, missing Mr. Frodo and his singing all the while. 

"There's snow on your hat." The very voice of his thinking called to him from the door of the hole. "And a pipe in your mouth, unless I miss my guess, Sam Gamgee." Amusement mixed with gentle chiding. 

"I'm not coughing none," he answered, but he tapped the pipe out anyway. It made a dappled dark hole in the new snow. ' 

Mr. Frodo stepped out in just his shirtsleeves, blinking up into the white flakes. "This cold won't be good for your lungs either." 

"I'm all right." Sam looked at him shyly. Snow began to speckle his master's dark hair. His feet left melted prints where they pressed. Now this was enough to make Sam's breath short: the sight of Mr. Frodo could always do that, and the memory of the press of his mouth. They'd shared one kiss, and only one, never mentioned again, but it threaded warmth between them even in the brisk winter cold. 

Sam put his pipe inside his coat. "It's rare beautiful, isn't, it, sir?" He meant the snow, perhaps, but his eyes were for Mr. Frodo. 

"It is." Mr. Frodo turned back to him, with just such a curve of his mouth as to make Sam's heart flutter. Never more than this, not but once. Never enough that Mr. Bilbo might scold, nor the Gaffer. "And you're planning to shovel it." 

"If there's enough." Sam chuckled. "I've been wanting a bit of work to keep me fit." 

Was that a darkening of Mr. Frodo's eyes, something of their blue swallowed up by a flicker of hunger? It was, and Sam felt a shiver glide through him as he caught Mr. Frodo's thought-- work that would keep him fit, aye, both of them. Or perhaps he was thinking too much, and Mr. Frodo was elsewhere in his mind, but that didn't hardly matter. 

Mr. Frodo broke the moment first as he tipped his head back and put out his tongue; Sam laughed to watch him working to catch a snowflake there. "You have to hold your breath or it melts them," he warned, seeing a puff of white vapor over Frodo's face. "You won't never do it that way." 

Mr. Frodo just laughed and chased after another, hardly looking where he was going. Sam ducked his head to hide a smile. "I'd best get about the dishes, sir." He stood up, deliberately stretching his shoulders, and went in. 

Mr. Bilbo was already in his study, fussing audibly over a map; he had no fewer than two teacups at his elbow, and it just half-past seven. Sam peeled off his coat and hung it in the hall, then he veered into the kitchen. Mr. Bilbo didn't hardly notice when Sam replaced both the empty cup and the lukewarm one with a third, steaming hot. He just reached out and brought it to his lips with a murmur that might have been thanks, frowning at his quill and the trimming knife. 

That was just right; just exactly perfect, by Sam's thinking. He started in on the dishes right away. The warm water made his hand feel a little tender, but he was toughening up quick. 

"Sam lad, you aren't to overdo out there with a shovel and come back in with pneumonia," Mr. Bilbo scuttled through, apparently set on using a kitchen knife to trim his pen, though Sam couldn't for the life of him have told what for. 

"No, sir," Sam agreed, but absently-- he'd spotted someone through the window; whoever it might be, he was away off down the Hill, but he thought it was Jolly, walking along purposeful-like, his head down and his gait listless, with no thought for the pretty snowfall around him. 

That made Sam's high spirits sink fast. He'd have gone out to Jolly if he could; he would. He'd been meaning to ever since he got on his feet again, but Jolly had made himself scarce, it seemed, standoffish and quiet, and then there'd been Mr. Frodo with that new look of joy in his eyes, a look Sam couldn't resist nohow. 

_We've done wrong by each other, Jolly._ He looked out through the window, wet with snowflakes that had gathered and melted at its lower edge. Jolly kept moving, not hurrying, looking grey and forlorn beyond the thickening curtain of snow. _The both of us, but you're the one who's most hurt, you who I'd not have hurt for nobody in the world less than Frodo Baggins._

He had to do what he could to make things right, and he couldn't delay much longer, not if he had to pin Jolly in a corner to talk to him. 

Mr. Frodo chose that moment to burst through the front door on a breath of cold air, laughing. 

"Frodo lad, close the door!" Mr. Bilbo scolded him predictably. "You're letting every bit of the warm air out, and I don't want to buy coal twice this winter!" He sounded cheerful in spite of his stern words. 

Sam felt his heart fill with Mr. Frodo's voice and the bright, joyful presence of him. He could hear Mr. Frodo's steps drawing near. 

"I think the storm won't pass for hours," Mr. Frodo confided to Sam's back, wandering in to warm his hands over the fire. "Will you be going home, or will you stay and be snowed in?" Low, his voice. Too low for Mr. Bilbo to overhear. 

Sam's whole body flushed with a thrill. "Well, there's these dishes yet to put away, and I've not started the luncheon." He dried a last cup very carefully, not turning around to face his master. 

"I did have my heart set on your roast chicken," Frodo's voice smiled, and Sam closed his eyes to hear it, hardly able to contain his joy. 

"I'll get about it, then." 

Sam tried to make himself forget Jolly's lonesome figure on the Road as he went out to fetch a chicken and readied it for the pot, but it took a long time for the cloud to lift from his heart-- a long time and Mr. Frodo's eyes shining at him over a forkful of tender roast chicken, and Mr. Bilbo fussing that Sam couldn't go home in such a storm as this, he'd have to stay the night.


	33. Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Jolly have an overdue conversation.

I'm sitting in the Green Dragon nursing a mug of ale and what might as well be called a broken heart when the lad as did the breaking walks in for the first time since early fall. I hear folk shouting his name right off, but I don't look up. I've known this day was coming; he's been out of bed for a month and more, and back up at Bag End a-working all this past fortnight. He got himself snowed in up there, too, or at least that's what their Marigold tells our Tom. That don't surprise me none, not at all. 

I look into my mug and swish the last bit of ale around, but I ain't got no more stomach for it. Here he comes; the empty chair across from me scrapes back as he sits down. 

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Jolly Cotton." Just as friendly as ever, those words, and it's like they wake some kind of a mischief in me, only not a kind one. Not a kind one at all, after a month of being left to twist in the wind. I'm smart enough to know my own mind for what it is: that's the hurt in me, built up over too long. It wants to lash out and drive him right away again, so he won't make things no worse-- but I know he couldn't make things no better, neither, not if I don't give him a listen. 

I bite down on the hurt and give him a smile. "And you're a rare sight for any eyes at all, these days, seemingly." It takes me a bit to get it out, but when I'm done he's squirming from guilt, and that makes me feel a needle of shame. 

"So are you, and that's a fact," he tells me, but some of the pleasure is gone from his face. 

"How's Himself?" Right to the point, and I'm still oddly calm, but it hits home, and the rest of his happy look is gone. 

"He's biding fine." Sam waves to the barmaid for an ale of his own, squaring his shoulders, the same sort of look I've seen him get over a hard job of work, one he'd rather not tackle. 

"And you?" 

"Still a bit sore and short of breath, but it'll pass." Sam shifts his shoulders, and he's stiff; the motion ain't easy. "All I need is a bit of work to turn my hand to, and I'd be right as rain." 

I bite my tongue on my first answer back to that, looking into my mug. I've had too much ale to have this talk now, and that's a fact. 

"Do you want to slip out back?" I don't hardly know I've said it till it's out. He blinks at me over the mug that's just been put in front of him. There's a cozy nook right up between the stables and the chimney corner, and we've made rare fine use of it a time or two, after just those words. 

"All right," he answers, and it's my turn to blink. He tips his mug back, drinking quick, and I can't help but watch his throat as he swallows. It's looked better, to my thinking, back when it had the marks of my mouth on it. But at least it don't have none from Himself. 

I lead the way out, having been here the longest, and I wait for him up against the brick chimney where it's warmest, right out of the wind. 

He comes out before too long, hands in his pockets. 

"You've had more than a bit of ale," he comments, and slides up next to me, his back against the warm bricks just like mine. 

"That I have." I nod. It's been taking a bit of extra work to live up to my name lately, and while the ale don't exactly help none, it makes me notice less when I don't manage. 

"Jolly..." Sam stops, a frown wrinkling his brow. It makes me want him in my arms with a desperate hollow longing. "You've been acting queer since the fire. What have I done?" 

I just laugh, hearing the hurt in it. "Naught," I answer him true enough. 

"Or said, then." He's stubborn. 

"Not a word, Sam Gamgee, not a word." And he ain't going to speak none of it now, not without prodding; I can see it in him. "Won't you kiss me, Sam?" 

"Jolly, I don't think you're in a proper mood for kissing." His frown is deeper. "How many mugs did you have?" 

"You're the one for counting." 

"And you ain't one for drinking, not like this. Come on." He snatches my hand and hauls me out of the nook. "We're going to walk a bit, till your head clears." He drags me down towards Bywater, walking brisk along the Road for all my swaying. "Did Mr. Frodo say summat to you?" 

"Why would he do that, if there ain't nothing to tell?" Oh, but that's letting my tongue get away from me. 

Sam looks up at that, fair troubled. "There ain't. Not much, nohow." 

"No?" it's bitter on my tongue. "I reckon a kiss must not mean much to you after all." The road ain't proper steady; this walking is sending all that ale straight to my head, and I lean on Sam, and find his face right up against mine. "Does it?" I lean closer, and he pushes me back. 

"Jolly, what...?" but that's guilt in his eyes; I ain't so drunk I can't see it. 

"You said you'd tell me when it was time, Sam." That quick the mad is gone, and all that's left is the hurt. "You promised." 

"Jolly." His voice breaks, and his arms are around me, and I ain't never needed nothing more, for my stomach is heaving and my brow is covered with a cold sweat, and my eyes are full of tears. "I don't even know what it means myself, hardly; he only done it once." 

"But that's enough." Drunk as I am, I know it. "When were you going to tell me, Sam, if that weren't enough? After he had you on your belly under him, rutting in his bed?" 

"Hush your foolishness!" Now he's mad, I reckon; he's caught my arms and give me a little shake, pushing me away. "Someone might hear!" 

"Let them." Oh, I am drunk. "It ain't like the whole countryside don't know he near killed me trying to follow you into that fire, and none of it from my talking, neither. What do I need to talk up, when everyone about could see for themselves him caterwauling like you'd not hear at a pig-killing, lashing about with fists and feet and teeth?" 

Sam goes white to hear it, his hands tightening. "What?" 

"Didn't you see? I guess you didn't, at that. The old wizard had to tend me himself, I was bit that bad." 

"I remember you bleeding, but not why." He looks bad, shaken, but not on my account, that's clear enough. 

"Well, now you know." All my dignity ain't good for much, not when the moon won't stay still over the horizon; he seems to have got into the ale himself, and can't find his proper road. 

"You ain't sobering up none." Sam sighs, and slips his arm around me. It feels better than good. It feels like the best thing ever. "You need to sleep a bit, I reckon." 

"Not home." I don't want Mam and Rosie to see me in such a state, nor Nibs, neither. "I don't feel so good, Sam." 

He casts about and spots a byre nearby. "Well, I reckon we might find a spot out of the wind and sit till you feel a bit better," he says doubtful-like. "I reckon Farmer Longholes won't mind if we borrow a bale or two of straw for the evening. It ain't like we'll eat much." 

That makes me start laughing, and I laugh on his arm till we're in the byre, and I'm still laughing until I realize I'm crying, wetting the shoulder of his shirt. 

"Hush," he says, soft-like, and pillows us down on the straw, with his shoulder under my cheek. The dry straw has to be sticking him where he's tender from being burnt, but he don't complain. "I reckon this is all my fault." He strokes my back and my hair. "I didn't know he cared for me, Jolly. I wouldn't never have took you on if I did." 

I hadn't known what I'd needed not to do neither; there weren't no knowing how hard I'd fall, and I never meant to. "Sam," I say, and his name is naught but a sob. I curl myself right around him, knowing I won't never get to no more. I can feel his lips on my forehead even as his arms go around me, rocking me away to sleep. 

 

 

When I wake it's cold morning, a watery light filtering in through the window, and we're curled up tight for warmth like rabbits in a rabbit hole, and Sam's found a coarse old saddle blanket to drape over us. My head feels like a herd of ponies galloped through it and used my mouth for their stable. Sam's awake, stroking my back; his face is dry and his eyes are clear. He can see I'm awake too, and he looks into my eyes for a long time. There ain't no telling what he sees, aside from a red-eyed bundle of misery with straw stuck in its hair. 

"You wanted me to say. I'm saying. Jolly--" he draws a deep breath to sigh, his chest expanding, then sinking. "I'm his, I reckon, and it's no matter if I never have aught more than one word and a kiss to show for it-- no matter, even if I'm letting myself in for a lifetime of hurt like my Gaffer says. I can't change my heart, though I would for you if I could for any." He breathes again, in and out, patient. "Jolly, you've got to let me go, and you're right. It's time." 

I hang on to him for a long moment, feeling tears slide out under my lids. I don't never want to forget how he feels in my arms, or how he smells like sunshine and straw. But he's right. I promised to let go, and so I do, though it hurts more than aught ever has in all my remembering. I pull back from him into the chill of the air. My face feels stiff and tight, and my head is stuffed full of wool. 

"I need some time before I can act like this never happened." I scrub at my eyes; they're as dry as sand, and as grainy. "Leave me some space, Sam, to get used to it. I can't have you right up in my face no more, not for a while, not knowing I can't reach out and touch you--" That's all I can say, or I'll cry again. I curl up my arms around my knees and stare down at my toes. 

"I'm still your friend, Jolly, when you want me, and I'd love to dandle your little ones on my knee, for I reckon I won't never have none of my own." Sam stands up, and I can hear his hurt in his voice, and his regret. "I'm sorry, Jolly." He stands for a moment like he'd say more, but there ain't nothing he can say to make me feel no better, and he's got sense enough to know it. "Come on; they'll be fretting back home." 

Fretting ain't the word for it; there's my old dad and his both out on the Road, and I can tell they've come out and found our trail in the morning light, for they're already looking at the byre when we come out. Any other time, I reckon they'd think we'd been up to summat, but we ain't holding hands, and it's clear enough the flush on my face ain't a happy one. 

The Gaffer looks like he's bit into a rotten tater. His brows are drawn down close and he glowers like a thunderstorm, folding his arms up. He looks fair bottled full of things he'd like to say, and the cork near to blowing right out, but he keeps his peace, just scowls at Sam. Sam keeps his chin up, stubborn-like, and stares right back. 

"Daisy and May and Tom and Nick are out searching for 'ee halfway to Buckland and Tuckborough." Gaffer stabs his walking stick at Sam. "What do 'ee mean by going off all night without never a word?" 

"We had a bit too much ale--" Sam starts. 

"I did, he means, and I couldn't make it home. Sam stayed to tend me." My voice is short, and still thick with tears. 

My dad don't say naught, just brings out the cloak I forgot back at the Dragon and bundles me up in it. He gives Sam a cool look, and that's enough to shame Sam where his own dad can't; he drops his chin and looks at his feet. 

"Well, Gaffer, I reckon we've found them." My dad fastens up the button of my cloak. "And it looks like they've had that bit of a falling-out you warned me to be expecting." He looks at me, his brow pinched up with sadness. "I reckon they're miserable enough without a hiding." 

I guess I am, at that, and I ain't surprised they can tell it's not drink as has left my eyes swollen and red and my lashes so wet they're like to freeze in the chill. 

"I don't see as it'd teach my lad a bit of sense if I strapped him till he bled," Gaffer snaps. "He'll come to a bad end, see if he don't. Your Jolly's better off out of it, I'm thinking." 

"That last is true enough, I'll warrant, though I suppose I've seen many a tweenager do worse than break his lover's heart, and still not deserve such a strapping." My Dad pushes at my shoulder, gentle-like. "Come along, lad. You'll feel better with a bite of porridge in your belly. Good day, Hamfast." 

He ain't got no more good word than that for Sam, and I can't say as I blame him, but I look over my shoulder as we go, and catch a last glimpse of Sam, standing in front of the Gaffer. His old dad don't say naught more, just takes off up the Road towards Bagshot Row, leaving Sam to trail behind. 

The Gaffer's got the right of it, and I've cause to know it better than anybody. He could strap Sam ragged over Mr. Frodo, and Sam wouldn't budge, not an ell. Not an inch. Not a hair. Not now that he knows. 

Not Sam Gamgee.


	34. Sledding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young hobbits enjoy a lovely winter afternoon.

Clouds of mist puffed out in front of Sam's face. He plowed through them stolidly as he lurched and toiled up the hill like a cart-horse, a rope set firmly on his chest and two laughing girls in tow, sitting on the rickety wooden sledge Sam's older brothers had passed down to them. Shrieks and laughter spilled through the bright clear air as hobbits slid down the sledding hill next to them, some few on sleds with metal runners, more on homemade sledges or even wooden trays, and a dozen or more with only burlap sacks under their bottoms, but nonetheless happy for all of that. 

"Hoy there!" Sam yelped, and sputtered as a sled-runner sent a spray of ice-flecks up into his face. On the sledge, Marigold and Rosie giggled. That Pippin Took was a menace on a sled, trying to outdo lads twice his age-- and them metal runners were dangerous, if you tipped over, but he didn't seem to mind for naught. 

Sam wiped his face with his sleeve and struggled on up the hill, taking deep gulps of frosty air through his muffler. This was the kind of doing that would have him in shape again for next spring in the garden, sure enough. 

They hit the plateau and Sam let go the rope. "I'm having a ride this turn," he told them, pretending to be cross, though he wasn't at all. "Pile off now." 

Marigold stood up with a saucy flounce. "Don't you go talking cheek, Sam!" 

"You're a fine lass to say the word." Sam grinned, and plopped down on to the sledge. "I'm going to give that Mr. Pippin a fright he won't soon forget!" 

Rosie tittered and Marigold squealed as Sam lined up with his target and pushed off, bouncing down the hard-packed snow at a fine speed. He'd been steering this hill since he was big enough to trudge up its side in the snow, and there weren't none better. Mr. Pippin was the perfect target, standing all self-satisfied at the bottom with his hands on his hips, half-turned away from the hill but not moving far enough away from the sled-path. Sam steered a little to the left, lining up. 

"Hoy!" he yelled again, leaning sharp to the right, and Mr. Pippin turned just as Sam caught soft snow with the edge of the sledge, leaning hard right to keep it balanced as he veered aside. A great shower of soft snow was flung up in an arc, and it drenched right over Mr. Pippin's green velvet coat and his face, and then Sam struck a hard chunk and tumbled right off his sledge, laughing. 

He came up sputtering just as hard as Mr. Pippin, biting back a smile at the surrounding laughter. "Well, I'm sorry about that, sir," Sam stepped up, solicitous, and started slapping at Mr. Pippin's coat to clean the snow off it. 

"You're not a bit of it, you rascal!' Mr. Pippin laughed-- he was a good lad, for all his foolishness, as ready to take a joke as to dish one out. "I thought you were coming straight at me." 

Sam laughed and got his sledge. "Now, that wouldn't be a bit safe." 

"How do you steer so well with just a sledge?" Pippin went with him to pick it up, keenly curious, holding the sledge between his hands. 

"You lean your weight just so." Sam tilted his head to demonstrate. "It helps that the snow's packed good and hard. And it don't go so fast as your sled, so you have more time to think." 

"I want to try." Mr. Pippin handed Sam his fancy sled and put the sledge down, then plopped onto it, beaming. Sam just chuckled and caught the rope-- he was a good deal lighter than Rosie and Marigold, even with the sled added in for good measure. "And you can try the sled, if you want." 

"I'd like that, sir." Sam cast a look up the Hill towards Bag End, where Mr. Pippin was staying through Yule. He wasn't standoffish and hateful like some of the gentlefolk who'd visited up at Bag End when Sam was younger, but he more than made up for it with his energy. He took a deal of cooking for and picking up after, no mistake. Keeping up with the young Took made Sam's job a good deal more strenuous, and that was a fact. 

He wondered why Mr. Frodo hadn't come out with Mr. Pippin, though. Mr. Frodo loved sledding, and the weather wasn't often right for it. Mayhap Mr. Bilbo had some task at hand, and was keeping Mr. Frodo busy. 

At the top, Mr. Pippin arranged himself carefully and stared down the hill, thinking, leaning back and forth to get the feel of the sledge. Sam smiled, looking at the sled he held; he'd want to take it a bit easy with this, not knowing proper how to steer. He'd want to go easier than Mr. Pippin on the sledge, he'd warrant-- and sure enough, Mr. Pippin was away, careening down at a wild angle, having leaned a bit too much. 

"Pile on here, Mari; he said we might use his sled." Sam put himself forward, and Marigold wrapped her arms around him. "Hang on tight, because I ain't quite sure how it'll steer." Sam waited for a break in the sliding, and made sure everyone was out of the way before giving a cautious push. 

The sled moved like lightning, cold air stealing his breath; he mostly didn't try to steer none, just tried to keep balanced since it was a deal further off the ground than he was used to. They shot right out into the field, cutting a spray, and Sam pulled to the right with some caution, gradually sending them sideways, the friction slowing them down till they bogged into a stop. 

"Oh, Sam, we were flying!" Marigold bounced up, her smile near reaching her ears. "That's the fastest sled I ever rode, and no mistake!" 

"Let me show you how to do it right," Mr. Pippin came tramping up through the snow and smiled at her. "We'll go up near the top and take a faster start, would you like that?" 

She squealed and took off. Sam chuckled-- for once she was climbing the hill without him to haul her, and faster than Mr. Pippin, too. He reclaimed his own sledge, none the worse for wear from Mr. Pippin's use, and looked about. 

The Cottons were on the steep end of the hill, mostly, except for Rosie, who was currently thumping down the middlemost hill with one of the Noakes girls on a tea-tray. Jolly was out too, and Sam paused for a moment to watch him. He had a lass with him, arranging her skirts careful and dainty for the downhill run, then fussing at him as he sat on her petticoat when he went to join her on the sled. Sam squinted, but what with the sun glaring on the white snow, he couldn't make her out well enough to see who she was. 

He bit his lip and looked away, feeling a stab of guilt. Now, if he could ride with Jolly, they'd go up to the top like Mr. Pippin and Marigold, and he'd show Mr. Pippin a thing or two about how to steer a sledge. But without Jolly, Sam didn't have the heart. He'd rather play with the little ones on the easier slope, where the hill was gentlest, and let Jolly have the space he'd asked for. 

Sam watched as Marigold and Mr. Pippin got on the sled and took off in a shower of sparkles, whooping and diving through the turns. Mr. Pippin was reckless, but he was a good hand at steering the sled. 

Satisfied that his sister was safe, Sam wandered over towards the bonfire to warm his hands and feet. Logs were ranged around it in a circle, and he sat down on one, propping his heels near the embers. The heat felt so good it nearly stung. He unwrapped his muffler and let it dangle down his shoulders. 

"Here, Sam." Bergamot Twofoot hurried over with a mug of cider; there was a barrel on a table, and rough clay mugs ranged around it, doubtless a product of Mr. Bilbo's thoughtful purse. "Shall I mull it for you?" The Twofoots had took him in like one of their own after he'd saved Pansy and the babe; they wouldn't hardly let him do without a comfort they could provide, if they saw a chance. 

"I'd like that, thankee." Sam held out the mug and she took up a poker nestled in the embers, tapped it off, and dipped it into the mug quick and deft, making the cider steam and hiss. 

Sam nodded. "That's fine." He took a sip and sighed, content, feeling it wash warmth down his throat. He was breathing near enough to normal these days, but the cold could still make him feel a bit of pain, and the warm cider eased it. 

He could see all the way up to Bag End from here, and a motion caught his eye. The door opened and a hobbit come out: Mr. Frodo, bundled up thick in his winter coat. Sam smiled into his cider and sat easy. That was more like it; any day seemed brighter when Mr. Frodo was about. 

He picked his way down Sam's shoveled path and onto the Road; Sam watched him drop the sled he held and take up its rope to pull it after him. 

"Where'd you find that, Sam?" Marigold interrupted his peace, taking his mug and having a healthy sup for herself. 

"Get your own, Marigold Gamgee!" Sam took it back. "There's plenty on the table." He swigged down what she'd left. "And get me another; I've spent the morning hauling you about." 

She took his mug and went, chattering with Bergamot; Sam watched them, keeping half an eye on the Road. When she come back he took his new mug and sipped at it, calculating his timing. If he planned just right.... 

Mr. Pippin came and plopped down dramatically next to Sam, fanning his open coat. "It's hot climbing that hill," he complained. "Is that cider?" 

Sam fetched him a mug without mulling it first, and then took off to the hill, starting the long trudge up toward, and reached the Road just as Mr. Frodo arrived. 

"Afternoon, Mr. Frodo." Sam gave him a shy nod and joined in a line of hobbits waiting to ride. 

"Good afternoon, Sam." Careful and polite, they didn't exchange another look, though Sam could all but feel Frodo there, like he'd felt the bonfire warming his toes. Sam was well aware there were curious eyes watching, and ears, and a few tales being whispered, some with more basis in fact than not. 

"Did Frodo really follow you into the Twofoots' hole?" That was Mr. Milo Burrows, talking low just for Sam's ear, for all that he was one of the gentry. 

Sam laughed low in return. "I went in by myself, and come out with the girls." 

"Well," Milo flushed, "I'd heard differently, that's all." 

"He didn't singe a hair on his head," Sam said stoutly. "Him nor Jolly, neither, but they dug me out." 

"Well, that's lucky, then," Milo's voice rose to a normal range, but he sounded doubtful and reluctant, hating to give up on a good story. "But you aren't with Wilcome Cotton any more, are you, since then?" 

"Me and Jolly, we're still friends." Sam smiled a little bit weakly, wishing Milo weren't a Burrows, so he could tell the lad off to mind his business. 

"Well, that may be so." Milo sounded even less pleased than before, and darted an angry stare towards the other end of the hill. Sam followed his look and blinked with pure shock to find it was Peony Baggins on Jolly's arm, and her laughing and all! "However the land lies, I wish the two of you would make up whatever quarrel you've had, Sam Gamgee, so he'd remember his place!" 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Milo, but I ain't got no more say in who Jolly walks out with." Sam's turn was coming up quick, and he was keenly and uncomfortably aware that Frodo was still nearby, probably listening, waiting his own turn in the next line over. 

Milo sighed, sparing another glower for Peony and Jolly. "I suppose." He looked at Sam thoughtful-like. "It looks like Wilcome's sister has an eye for you, if you're looking for a lass yourself," He nudged Sam's ribs with his elbow. "I always thought she showed a bit of envy for Wilcome, Sam, while you two were together. Maybe you could have a word with her, and she'd say something to her brother--" 

Sam shifted, uncomfortable. "I like Rosie well enough, but I ain't courting her." That for Mr. Frodo's ears. 

Milo huffed, thwarted again. "I suppose you haven't had time for courting since the fire, at that. But you'd better strike while the iron's hot, as they say!" Milo flopped down onto his sled and he was gone. 

Sam heaved a sigh, putting his down in its place; he wanted to steal a look at Mr. Frodo so bad he could taste it, to see if he'd been listening. He sat himself down and gave a couple of testing pushes, then shoved off down the hill, not taking no pleasure in it. At the bottom he tumbled off a-purpose, to give him the excuse to linger, and watched from the tail of his eye while Mr. Frodo slid down the sun-dappled hill, laughing, and fetched up in the drift himself, standing and shaking snow out of his hair. 

"Frodo!" Pippin's clear voice. "A challenge at last. Let's have a race, Frodo, on the long hill!" 

"You're a scamp, Pippin Took, and I'll beat you by a length!" 

He and Pippin took off up the hill, chattering and laughing, and Sam rousted himself out of his drift, gathering up three little ones and plunking them onto the sledge for another assault on the hill. 

By the time the sun sank, Sam was as tired as he could be, mostly from hauling sled-loads of children about and from avoiding Jolly's eye on the rare occasion when their paths crossed. It hurt his heart to see Jolly so sad. 

Even worse, it shamed him when Jolly caught Sam's eye in spite of all their avoiding, and gave Sam a single, estimating look, being sure Sam's attention was firmly caught, then looked calm and deliberate on up the hill towards where Mr. Frodo and Mr. Pippin were having a grand time laughing and shouting, both perched on Mr. Pippin's runnered sled. His eyes came turning back, then, and Sam could read their look like he could read his own name. You left me for naught better than to stand by his side when you could, and precious little of that. Not even for his warm bed, Sam Gamgee. Was it worth it? 

That he had, and it was, at least the way Sam saw it, so there weren't no excuse to be made. What's more, Jolly didn't have no room for accusing, not with Peony Baggins on his arm! Sam shook his head. Wonders wouldn't never cease, he guessed. 

Still, Jolly didn't look happy in spite of his companion, and Sam reckoned walking out even with a Baggins wasn't no better than having naught at all, if that Baggins wasn't the hobbit you wanted. He wouldn't never have none of Peony himself; she was a bossy one, and he guessed she was spending the afternoon as she was just to gall Milo, not for the sake of a real interest in Jolly Cotton. 

Sam busied himself fixing the knot of the rope on his sledge, and when he looked up again, Jolly was building a hobbit out of snow with Nick and Nibs, and Rosie lay near them, on her back moving her arms and legs making a snow lass, jumping up to admire it-- and fussing when they rolled their snowball across where she'd made it. 

Meanwhile, judging by the shrieks, Mr. Frodo and Mr. Pippin had tumbled off the sled nearby at the bottom of the hill, and Mr. Frodo was accusing Pippin of making them turn over on purpose, which seemed likely enough to Sam. Mr. Frodo sounded happy and energetic, and that was enough to make Sam smile a little. On a whim, he crouched and caught a fistful of snow, shaping it loosely between his palms, then pitched it and went down onto his knee like lightning, not even looking when he heard it thud and shatter against its target. 

"Hey!" Now Mr. Frodo would be glaring about to see who threw it, sure enough! Sam's heart beat fast as he pretended to work on his sledge rope, waiting. 

"I saw that, Sam Gamgee!" Mr. Pippin crowed, and Sam broke his pretense, diving for cover behind a drift-- making it just as another snowball sailed past his head. 

Two more peppered his low drift in rapid succession, and Sam decided it weren't no good for cover, so he broke for it, taking one against the head and tossing one back without no chance to aim-- and then flat-out war broke loose, snowballs sailing back and forth over the hill and taking targets at random. When Sam found a tree, he could see Mr. Frodo and Mr. Pippin holding their ground in the midst of it all, crouched behind Mr. Pippin's sled, right where he could catch them in a crossfire. 

Laughing softly, he scooped up more snow and caught Mr. Pippin in the ribs as he knelt up to send a couple of his own sailing; the explosion of the loose-made snowball spattered over Mr. Frodo, who gave up on the defense of the sled and started a defense against Sam's crossfire, catching him neatly in the chest. Sam ducked behind his tree, knowing that if he peered out he'd earn a face full of snow-- making a feint with one elbow that drew fire, then again, till Frodo stopped believing he'd come out, and Sam scored another hit, aiming away from his master's face but producing a shriek anyhow. Mr. Pippin was ready, though, and caught him on the ear as he ducked back in. 

Sam peeked cautiously around the trunk, finding Frodo had given up on the sled and was coming for him on hands and knees behind the drift. He crouched down and started making himself a storehouse of snowballs, pretending like he didn't know he was being ambushed, till Mr. Frodo sprang up with a cry of triumph and stuffed a handful of snow down Sam's back. 

Sam yelped and dug for it, laughing, and then settled in with Mr. Frodo to pelt anybody who came out from under cover as the massed hobbits on the hill worked at taking Mr. Pippin's entrenchment-- and they spared a snowball or two for Pippin himself, whenever he looked like he might be enjoying a lull. 

"Treason!" Pippin yelled at Frodo, but he gave a good account of himself all the same, even if he came out looking more like a mounded snowdrift than a hobbit. 

"Let's go to the bonfire and get warm," Mr. Frodo suggested, and Sam followed him out willingly, fetching Mr. Frodo a mulled ale-- and then Mr. Pippin, too, who didn't have no more complaints about being too hot. The Sun was dipping low and a wet breeze had come up, grey clouds starting to mass again on the horizon. They meant more snow soon, or Sam was a rabbit. 

Someone hauled up a sack of chestnuts, and they buried them in the embers to roast and then cracked them and picked out the nutmeats; by this time the little ones were heading home and half a dozen lads arrived, pushing a barrel of ale in a barrow all the way from the Dragon, puffing, with Mr. Bilbo putting in an appearance at their heels. He chivvied them cordially until it was set up, then drank the health of the assembled hobbits and headed off home. 

There was a barrow of late-summer squash, too, beginning to wrinkle just a little but still sound, and the girls started roasting it in the coals. Presently Sam found himself sitting on a log next to Mr. Pippin with Mr. Frodo on the far end, drowsing and resting as they dried out and waited for the squashes to roast. 

By the time the squash cooked tender the stars were out, sparkling down from the sky around a three-quarter moon with a ring shining vaguely in the air all 'round it, promising snow. There weren't no spoons, so they ate with their fingers, messy and laughing; lamp-light twinkled around from the smials on the hill and all of the hobbits huddled together for warmth, courting couples cozy-- even Jolly and Peony, on the other side of the fire, were pressed up close. Peony looked happy enough for the both of them, since Jolly was cutting up dainty bites of squash for her with his knife and Milo was sitting off by himself, as sulky as could be. 

Sam sipped at an ale, content to sit quiet and look into the flames. He listened to the chestnuts pop and hiss, watching lads and lasses rake them out for eating. His back was cold, but his front was baking in the firelight, pleasantly over-warm, and he was comfortable. It turned out Mr. Frodo had brought bread and cheese for himself and Pippin, and he shared some out for Sam, as well. Soon Sam was full, as happy as he'd been since he was a little lad, and he almost wished he might lie down and sleep for a bit. 

It seemed others felt the same, for after they ate, hobbits began to drift away and let the bonfire sink down slowly, the circle closing tighter around it till Sam sat with his shoulders pressed between Mr. Pippin's and another lad's, their feet nearly in the ashes. Mr. Pippin got up and slipped out of the circle of firelight; Mr. Frodo yawned, and after a bit he scooted near, closing the distance between himself and Sam to shut out the bite of the wind. He looked tired but peaceful, and his mug was empty. He settled against Sam as a voice took up a melody which soon spread around the circle-- a Yule song Sam had known ever since he was a little lad: 

_In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind makes moan._   
_Earth stands hard as iron, water like a stone._   
_Snow has fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow._   
_In the bleak midwinter, it is ever so._

_Darkness now surrounds us as the nights grow long,_   
_Yet we fill the night time with our hopeful song._   
_Winter's cold won't reach us here, where we light our fire,_   
_As we burn the old year on its funeral pyre._

_Now the new year beckons, even in this night._   
_Soon the days will lengthen, and our hearts grow light._   
_Hope will grow within us as we look ahead,_   
_And we see that spring wakes out of winter's bed._

_Light will follow darkness, as the earth turns round,_   
_Sunlight follows moonlight, thawing frozen ground._   
_So our lives renew with every dawning day,_   
_And with every new year, blue skies follow gray._

Mr. Frodo's voice picked up the melody, humming soft against Sam's side and rousing sweet memories; Sam was aware of Jolly's eyes watching the two of them through the sinking flames, but he did not meet them, joining his own voice to the song. Mr. Pippin came back and squirmed in-- not between him and Frodo, but against Sam's other side, for a wonder. He carried a fresh mug, and he joined the singing quietly. 

There were other songs after, rising and falling on the winter air. After a time they faded, and the ending of the songs seemed to send a signal to the hobbits. Many rose, gathering up leftovers and mugs, taking their sleds, and heading back to their smials. Frodo sat quiet next to Sam, seeming to doze even after Mr. Pippin finally got up and took his leave, casting back a little smile. Sam realized he'd slid his arm around Mr. Frodo to keep him upright, but little matter-- it was his job to take care of Mr. Frodo, who looked to be deep in his cups. Besides, most of the hobbits who remained were only interested in home and bed, to look at them. Jolly didn't look over when he rose to escort Peony home; only Marigold gave Sam a knowing smile as she got up and slipped away, her hand tucked tight inside Tom Cotton's. 

There were a few lingering calls and scrapes from the hill as courting couples took a last slide down for the night, clinging tight and laughing, but with warmth and happiness, not the shrill glee of children at play. The last ale was let out of the barrel and drunk, and one or two at a time the hobbits slipped away, at last leaving only Sam sitting by the fire with Mr. Frodo leaned cozy and warm against him. 

Sam finished his ale slowly, savoring each swallow, loving the warm weight that lay against his side. "Mr. Frodo," Sam called softly at last, hating to wake him, wondering how much ale he'd drunk as the evening deepened. 

"Sam." Mr. Frodo's eyes opened straight away, alert as anything, and Sam laughed for surprise and delight. 

"You've been playing at sleeping all the while, haven't you?" he felt himself flush, almost giddy. "And now everyone's gone in but us, sir." 

"I wanted to ride down the hill with you," Mr. Frodo stood up and stretched. Sam understood he meant now, not earlier, though there would have been far less risk of arousing comment if they'd done it afore dark. 

"The moon's not full, but He ought to give plenty of light," Sam judged. His sledge stood alone by the tree where he'd leaned it earlier, but Mr. Frodo shook his head and drew Sam on, leaving his own sled, too. They rescued Mr. Pippin's fine sled from its drift instead, and Sam tucked it under his arm as they began the long trek up the hill, all the way to the top-- the very highest perch, a place from where few but the boldest dared to launch their sleds. Mr. Frodo settled the sled into the worn groove of the track and smiled at Sam; the moonlight caught his face, casting half into shadow and deepening his eyes. 

"You'd best steer," Sam deferred to him. "I'm not so good with these fancy sleds, and I reckon this is right dangerous, especially after dark." His heart was pounding, and not entirely with fear of the ride, neither. He tucked his muffler up over his mouth and pulled it tight around his neck. 

"It won't be." Mr. Frodo sat down and settled himself carefully on the sled, making sure his knitted cap covered his ears. Sam climbed on behind him, scooting up close to his master, making sure not to jar them downhill before they were ready. 

Shyly he set his legs alongside Mr. Frodo's, nestling up close behind him and wrapping his arms around his master's waist. It gave him a shivery sort of glow to feel Mr. Frodo's body solid between his thighs. "I'm set when you are." The muffler made his voice sound strange and stifled, but over its musty wool scent, Mr. Frodo smelled of cider and pipe smoke and good clean hobbit. 

"Brace your feet and hang on tight." Mr. Frodo waited while he did, then reached out, mittened hands settling on the snow. He pushed once, twice-- and they were away, down a stomach-turning drop. Sam buried his head in Mr. Frodo's neck, clinging for his life as the sled bounced below them, banking like a bird around the turns, sending a spray of snow flying. Mr. Frodo laughed, the sound ringing dizzily in Sam's ears, and they bumped onto the second level, which was smoother and straighter. 

Sam dared to look up as they gained speed; Mr. Frodo had lost his cap and his hair whipped in Sam's face, and the lamplight from the houses was like shooting stars. Mr. Frodo leaned into a turn, and Sam with him; the runners dug in and the sled flew, lifting over a bump and bouncing down near hard enough to tumble them off. 

Sam clung to his master's waist, glad of his braced feet as they battered across the hard-frozen ruts of the Road and tilted down again onto the last descent, which flashed past faster than Sam could blink. They shot between the drifts into the untouched field-- where the surface had melted a bit in the sun and then frozen again, enough to hold under the runners as they flew out into the wide flat. Mr. Frodo leaned to the side and they arced away from the hedge and kept going, sliding over crisp new snow, the runners whispering gently over the rolling dips and turns. 

The land still sloped, and they followed it down through a slot in the hedge and into the next field, slowing gradually, floating like they were flying over clouds in a dream. The ride stretched out, glorious and silent under the stars, till Sam wondered dizzily if they would fetch up in Bywater, but at last they passed beneath a ridge and the runners floundered, and they went over into a drift, still clinging together, the sled angled up, half-buried in powdery snow. 

Frodo spat snow, sputtering and laughing. "I made a mistake; the Sun didn't reach the shadows here, and the snow's too soft." 

Sam just lay as he was; Frodo rested half on top of him, their legs tangled. Frodo twisted, lithe, to look down at Sam, his head framed by a scattering of diamond stars, their pale light catching the frost in his hair. He fell still, looking down at Sam, soft mist coming in clouds from his quick breathing. 

He'd lost his cap a long time back, and his ears looked cold. Sam fumbled clumsily, managing to drag and squirm out of one mitten, and covered Frodo's ear with his palm, feeling the ice crystals caught in Frodo's hair melting against his skin. He thought about how Frodo had taken such care to make sure his burnt hand didn't stiffen; it meant he could curl his fingertips now, and thread them right into Frodo's soft, damp hair. 

Frodo's eyes closed and he leaned into Sam's hand, making a little sigh. Sam felt his arm start to tighten, then realized of a sudden that he couldn't pull Frodo down for a kiss at all, not even if he found the courage; his muffler was pulled up to his nose and his other hand was trapped somewhere in the snow, under Frodo's body. 

He must have made a little sound of frustration, for Frodo's eyes snapped open to search Sam's face and he laughed, not unkindly. "Come on, Sam." He boosted himself upright and reached a hand down to Sam, hauling him up. A dark spot on the tumbled white proved to be Sam's discarded mitten, and he pulled it back on with his teeth, struggling to catch his breath. 

"That was better than flying," he said softly, and Mr. Frodo smiled over his shoulder. 

"We'd best be getting in now before your Gaffer wonders where you are, and before Bilbo turns out the countryside after me." He picked up the sled, tapping snow off its underside. "Maybe we can ride again sometime before the winter's over." 

Sam nodded and fell in at Frodo's side. They walked back up to the Road together, the silence of the wide, white night companionable between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the song is traditional. It isn't mine, but the website I took it from has disappeared.


	35. Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo expands Sam's job description.

Bilbo sat down before his morning tea, inhaling the steam greedily. His head hurt, and he felt rather like he'd spent the previous evening at the Ivy Bush trying to find the bottom of three too many mugs. If that was going to be the way of things, then he would have to change his approach to coping with having two energetic young relatives about the place. He would go down and spend his evenings in the Bush rather than wasting prudence and virtue by going to bed with the chickens, only to sleep lightly and be awakened repeatedly throughout the night. 

A shriek and thud split the air, echoed by another, and another, this time accompanied by a ripping sound, and Bilbo winced. "Samwise, do you think you can mend feather pillows?" 

"Yes, sir, I can, but it's not the season for goose-plucking." Sam opened the door of the oven, pulling out a rack of toast and propping the slices up on a plate so quick and deft he didn't even burn his fingers. 

"I'll buy a goose so we can butcher it for the table, and that will do for down," Bilbo decided. Or more than one goose, judging from the uproar that continued to emerge from Frodo's bedchamber. Apparently his much-loved nephew had reverted to a second pre-tweenhood. 

"Yes, sir." Sam had only two hands, but somehow he produced butter and jam and the plate of toast and a knife and a spoon all at once, laid out as neatly as Bilbo could have asked from the Thain's own table. Bilbo would have said he was wasted in a garden, except flowers answered his call even more readily than plates and pans and jam and bedsheets. 

He sighed, sipping his tea. There was really no good reason not to increase Sam's duties and his wages, as they had discussed-- no reason other than his own foreboding, an unsettled feeling Bilbo experienced whenever he observed his nephew and the young Gamgee lad with their heads together. He put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and fidgeted there. He had Sam's pay packet tucked away inside, riding next to the comforting weight of his old ring. 

Perhaps he should not have interfered to bring Sam back from Tighfield. The Gaffer was a shrewd hobbit; he didn't miss much that went on in the countryside and even less within his own family, and this time he'd seen sharper and sooner than Bilbo-- he'd seen good reason to send Sam away in spite of his own decline in health. 

Bilbo frowned. He'd been too self-absorbed, worried for the future health of his garden and aware of the onset of rheumatism in Gaffer Gamgee's knees. He should have spent more thought on his decision, should have made a guess at the reason for the Gaffer's strange reluctance and the meaning of Frodo's pale, anxious expression. He'd only begun to suspect when he was startled by Sam's painful new shyness after he returned. 

And yet, for all the Gaffer's caution, nothing had been mended by Sam's time away. His interference had only made matters more serious, or Bilbo was no judge. 

Bilbo reached for the jam and his knife. Serious indeed. His time of rest and healing at Bag End with Frodo for a nurse had mended much of young Sam's shyness, it seemed. Alarming as that was, the gossip in the countryside was far more so. Frodo had made quite an object of himself when Sam was trapped in the Twofoots' hole, and his imprudent antics were being talked abroad as far as Bree. 

Worse still, Sam wasn't walking out with Jolly Cotton any longer, and the change had come quite swiftly after the accident. Suspicious tongues linked the two events instantly. It would have been far better if Samwise had been sent home and tended by his sisters, but he was Bilbo's own house servant, deserving of proper care. 

If only Sam hadn't been burned so badly he couldn't bear the covering of so much as a drape of cloth! To be sure, that had contributed to the problem. Sam was a strapping lad, quite eye-catching really, and Frodo had reached a particularly awkward age where he was prone to be vulnerable to such things. 

Bilbo bit into a slice of toasted bread thickly layered with raspberry jam and eyed Sam, who was kneeling on the hearth, feeding wood to the fire. There was already more bread cut and stacked in the rack, ready to pop into the oven, a double batch of it, and sausages sizzling, too, a smell that would soon roust-- 

"HELP!" Swift-pattering feet warned Bilbo; he hastily swallowed his mouthful and shielded his plate protectively as Pippin burst into the kitchen, trailing a cloud of down-feathers. 

"Why should I help you escape a fight you started, Master Peregrin?" Bilbo spoke up sharply to cover his amusement. "Face the consequences of your mistake, lad, and next time perhaps you'll think twice before confronting an opponent twice your size with an outright attack!" He tipped up his teacup and drained it. "Sneak up on him, next time. I recommend putting his hand into a basin of warm water after he's gone to sleep." That would create a bit of unpleasant work for Sam, but at least the prank would preserve the late-night silence of the smial (unless, of course, Frodo awoke before it was finished). 

Pippin tilted his head, considering. "Where do you keep the basins?" 

"In the cupboard." Bilbo slathered another piece of toast, this one with honey, and took a bite. "Mind you don't break any dishes getting one down, and don't burn yourself on the kettle." 

Sam was listening; he glanced back at them, alarm dawning on his face. Bilbo noted the expression from the corner of his eye, having half-expected its appearance. Serious indeed. 

Before Bilbo could finish his second slice, Frodo pattered down the hall, rather more sedately than his young cousin. He also bore evidences of pillow-battle, but did not shed goose-down as lavishly as Pippin, which was doubtless a sign of his victory. "I could eat a side of bacon!" Frodo flopped down, and of course, the moment he spoke his wish young Sam was off to the pantry, pausing only long enough to pour two cups of tea and pop the new toast in to the oven. 

"Sam, I'll need you for the day," Bilbo said crisply when the lad returned, shaking his head in disbelief as Sam put the bacon on the counter and went straight to the oven, where he neatly slid the batch of toast out: it was golden-brown and perfectly timed, for all of the interruption. "And the evening as well, I don't doubt. There should be a packet of needles in the left drawer of my writing desk. See if you can't salvage at least one pillow out of the shambles." 

"I can go down to market for that goose, too, sir," Sam murmured, and Bilbo rolled his eyes, amused by the boy's dutiful offer in spite of himself. Give Sam the work of two hobbits, and he'd do enough for five just to prove his worth. 

"That will be fine, lad, and when you do, bring me back a Silmaril. I want it cut fresh from the Iron Crown of Thangorodrim, mind you, or I'll dock your pay." Bilbo tapped at his chin thoughtfully, the germ of an idea forming rapidly in his mind. 

Sam looked up, wide-eyed with shock, and Bilbo chuckled in spite of himself, reaching into the pocket of his weskit, his mind made up. "Calm down, lad. I don't mean a word of it, and I should not have said such a thing. The curse of Fëanor is not a matter for jesting." He handed over Sam's wages and chuffed a bit impatiently when Sam put the envelope into his pocket without even looking inside; it disturbed the drama of his announcement. "You'll find a bit extra there, to reflect your new position," he prompted Sam instead. 

Sam's eyes went wide and he stammered thanks, fingers clutching tight over his pocket. Ahhh, that was the reaction Bilbo was expecting. He shot a glance towards Frodo, who was just covering his smile with a sip of tea. Bilbo stifled a snort. He'd just made the two of them very happy, by the looks of it. This arrangement would not quite work out in the way they expected, though if he was lucky, they would not realize that for quite some time. He huffed again and made himself look cross. 

"Are you hiring me on permanent-like, then?" Sam drew himself up and stopped his yammering, shoulders square. He kept his expression carefully deferential, clearly aware of his place and wary of departing from it. It was a look so very different from the incautious, open cheer Sam always showed as a boy that it touched Bilbo's heart, tempting him to relent from his purpose. 

But no. If this were more than a tweenager's crush, it would stand the test of adversity and come out the stronger for it. If it were only an adolescent fancy, his plan should prove a merciful and effective way to bring about its end. 

Bilbo kept his tone purposefully gruff. "I am. As cook, valet, gardener, and house-boy. You're to do anything and everything that needs doing. But the garden is to come first, when the season requires." Bilbo eyed him sternly, meaning to get his bluff in. "And don't be letting these good-for-nothing lads distract you from your work." 

"I won't, sir." Sam's chest swelled with a deep breath-- pride evident in every line of him, making him look like he was near to bursting with it for all that he kept his eyes lowered. 

"The two of you had best not hinder Samwise about the house today." Bilbo warned, shaking his head at Frodo and Pippin, frowning. "I've a mind to invite Saradoc's eldest to join your house-party, and I won't have him come in thinking he's been asked to visit a sty." He looked at Frodo and Pippin again. "Or rather, I won't have him think I mean for him to sleep in a coop with the fowls." 

Pippin whooped and spilled his tea. "Merry's coming?" 

Bilbo smiled. "That he may." 

"Frodo, we'll have to take him out to the sledding hill, and we can build snow hobbits, and dig a snow cave and camp in it...." Pippin bubbled over with happy plans, and Frodo nodded along, his face lighting with a look of pleased anticipation. 

Bilbo listened for a moment, then nodded firmly, satisfied. 

Just as he had advised Pippin, an outright attack was not the thing, not the thing at all. These situations called for subtlety. There could be nothing better to distract a pair of lads from playing at a crush than giving one of them more to do than he could rightly handle, and distracting the other with pleasant diversions of every kind imaginable. 

That should settle matters, but if it didn't, there were plenty of other options to consider, and months yet to watch and see what came of his meddling. 

"I'm off to have a bit of a walk, lads," Bilbo stood up decisively and went for his coat and his walking stick, looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet. "I'll be back in time for a light nuncheon, and I'll expect roast goose for my dinner, Samwise." He went out, humming in time to the tapping of his stick upon the flagstones.


	36. A Handful of Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam clears up a mess.

When Sam went in to survey the damages after Mr. Bilbo left, Mr. Frodo's room looked like the out-of-doors after a fresh snowfall, with white and pale grey down scattered everywhere from the burst pillow, drifting and blowing gently in the draught from the door. Sam chuckled under his breath and shut the door to prison all he could of it inside, stepping forward with his broom in his hand. He'd best start from the top of the room and work towards the floor. 

There were fuzzy bits of fluff everywhere, from the tops of the wardrobe and the chest of drawers to the sides of the unlit lamps and the tumbled covers on the bed. Sam dusted them away patiently-- he'd have wanted to dust in here soon in any case; the smooth, oiled wood was sadly neglected, a film of ash from the fireplace thick on every unused surface. 

He worked quickly, but with care. Outside he could hear Master Pippin's shrill laughter and Mr. Frodo's lower tones. Inside he felt warm and content, a flutter of pleasure stirring in his belly as he looked around at his surroundings-- all of these were Frodo's things, and now he had a right to be here among his master's favorite books and his clothes. He had a right to touch Mr. Frodo's bed, to dust and arrange his polished river stones and jay feathers and the few sprays of dried hydrangea sitting in a vase on his writing desk. He could polish his master's mirror and lay a fire on his hearth and plump the cushions that lay on his chair or its padded footstool. He could pick up Mr. Frodo's spare pipe and fill his pouch of pipe-weed, which lay on his dressing table, or hang up his nightshirt, which went on a peg inside the door of his wardrobe, and he could close the door, which stood ajar. 

Sam didn't let himself look often at the bed, shyly moving around the room till every feather was dislodged on to the floor-- taking care of them all except those on the bed itself, where they had fallen thickest. He guessed that was the site of Master Pippin's ill-advised attack. 

Breathing carefully, Sam went to the bed and untucked all the sheets and coverlets from the mattress, his knee sinking in to the deep, soft feather-tick as he leaned all the way over to the top corner. 

Everything smelled of Frodo. Sam breathed low and steady, drawing that scent into his lungs as he straightened up and picked the feathers from the dark green coverlet, letting them fall on to the floor. He folded the linens and laid them on the mattress as he finished picking over them one by one, adding their feathery coating to the pile. 

When he was done he swept the floor again, collecting all the down into a pile in the center of the room. It was a bit dusty and he hesitated over whether to save it, but goose-down was dear, and he hated to see it go to waste-- and what's more, it was from Mr. Frodo's pillow, the very one his cheek pressed every night, and it smelled of his skin and his hair. Moving fast and furtive, Sam scooped it up. It pressed small between his hands, so he tied it inside his handkerchief to save it, putting it in to his pocket. His heart pounded hard, telling him he was doing something wrong even though his alternative would have been to dump the little pile in to the fire. 

The pillow would not be hard to mend and would not require a new cover of cloth; the stitching at the seam had come loose, that was all. Not much of the down had escaped; it looked far more than it was. 

Sam went to the linen closet and fetched fresh sheets for Mr. Frodo's bed, and pillow-cases and a warmer blanket, too. He put the used sheets away in the hamper to be laundered and made the bed, climbing up on his hands and knees to tuck the back corner tight. Jolly's words chose that moment to come back to him, their edges faintly slurred with ale. On your belly under him, rutting in his bed-- 

Sam froze still. Him and Jolly hadn't never done nothing like that. They hadn't never done aught more daring than take each other in hand and stroke, and that was a fact, for all they knew there was other things they might do. Other things, like.... 

Sam shuddered and closed his eyes, thinking of kneeling with Mr. Frodo behind him, kneeling naked, head pillowed on his folded arms, waiting for his master to mount him.... or waiting on his hands and knees for a different sort of touch, one that would start on his lower lip and press in to fill his mouth. 

Sam shivered, half with wanting and half with fright. He hadn't never pictured himself doing no such things before, nor wanted to! To think of such here.... 

He scrambled off the bed hastily, cheeks crimson, and reached for the coverlet with hands that shook so badly he nearly dropped it. Somehow he managed to spread it over the mattress and tuck it around the single remaining pillow. He finished as quick as ever he could, half-wishing Mr. Frodo might come back inside and catch him here with his thoughts plain to read in his eyes and the little handful of stolen fluff tied up in his pocket. 

When the bed was made, Sam blew out his candle and fled-- all the way down the Hill to the market, to find a goose.


	37. Obedience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pippin learns a lesson in leadership.

Sam poured the dishwater out carefully, upending the tub in the far corner of the back garden, feeling the strain of tired muscles from a long day's work well-done. The goose had been the worst task, fetching it up for butchering, then plucking and dressing it and spending the afternoon basting and turning it on a spit over the fire. Sam hated butchering animals, for all he knew it was necessary; the poor thing might have lived many years yet, paddling about on the Water, and hatched flocks of goslings. 

Still, folk had to be fed, and Mr. Frodo's pillow mended, so he'd done what he must. The pillow lay on Mr. Frodo's bed now, the fresh down added to its stuffing and its seam stitched up tight by Sam's own hands. 

The clopping of a pony's hooves made him raise his head, and he hurried around the side of the garden to the front, where a smart bay pony was champing and blowing just outside the gate, a hobbit swinging down off its back. 

"Mr. Merry!" Sam put down the washtub and stepped forward. "That was right quick, sir, if you don't mind my saying so. Mr. Bilbo only sent for you this forenoon." 

"He did?" Merry laughed. "I must have passed the post on the road. I had Pippin's letter yesterday, and made up my mind Brandy Hall was too crowded to make for a pleasant Yule." 

"Come right in, Mr. Merry," Sam inclined his head politely. "The masters have just finished supper, but there's a bit of goose left over, and I'll see to setting a place for you." 

"Thank you!" Mr. Merry looked at him keenly. "Come up in the world a bit, have you, Samwise?" 

Sam blushed to be remembered. "I've been hired on to do for Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo about the smial." Merry Brandybuck would remember him as a field laborer, and little more. 

"They need it," Merry remarked, impertinent but charming, and preceded Sam to the door. "I heard of your accident. I take it you're healing well." 

"Yes sir." Sam took Mr. Merry's cloak when he swung it off with a flourish. "They're sitting in the study, sir." 

"Merry!" Master Pippin exploded into the hall. "I thought I heard your voice!" His hug caught Merry so hard he grunted, and Merry winked at Sam over Pippin's head, making Sam flush and slip away to heap a plate with roast goose and bread and peas and taters, and to fetch milk from the spring-house. 

While Merry ate his late supper, Sam went out to lead his pony down to the stables at the Green Dragon in Hobbiton. The night was brisk and clear, stars twinkling sharp in the sky, fit to send Sam to singing. 

He started up the Hill again only to pass Mr. Bilbo, humming one of his walking songs. 

"Good evening, Sam." Mr. Bilbo took a deep breath of the clean air. "Don't nights like these make you feel like journeying?" He was well-fed and in an expansive mood, beaming out across the fields. 

"Yes, sir," Sam said politely, though he suspected the master meant journeys that went farther than Sam himself would contemplate. "What with the stars so close you could all but touch them, sir." 

"That they are. I could almost fly to Dale, on this air." Mr. Bilbo sounded a bit odd, nearly wistful. "With the Road under my feet, and a good walking stick in my hand... but I'm off to Bywater," he recollected himself. "Don't let those boys keep you up. You've had a busy day." He set out again, giving Sam a nod. 

Sam padded up the Hill, finding the hole well-lit, with Mr. Frodo and his friends making the most of their evening, sharing joyful talk over wine. The last of the stars were coming out as the fading grey of the horizon deepened to a solid, velvet black. He could hear the gentlehobbits' laughter as he picked up the abandoned washtub and went around to the back to carry it in. As he slipped in to the hall, Mr. Frodo's laugh climbed over the others, clear and pure, and that lifted the weariness off Sam's back like naught else. 

He went in, shutting the door behind him, and padded up to the kitchen, detouring through the dining room to pick up Mr. Merry's empty dishes before returning the tub to its place and stacking them inside. They would keep till he carried and heated new water in the morning. 

Sam dried his hands and tidied up the last few things that needed it-- including a cupboard left open after a foray inside it for glasses. Thinking for a moment, he opened it again and picked up the bowls and basins that sat on the lowest shelf and placed them a higher shelf, where Mr. Pippin would have to climb to get at them. Then he took the step-stool and put it away out of sight in the pantry. There. 

He padded shyly into the study, where Frodo and his guests sat at ease. "Will you be wanting anything else, sir?" 

Frodo looked up, smiling. "You might bring a bit more wood for the fire, if you don't mind, Sam. We'll be sitting up late." 

"Not at all." He went off to the woodpile with the brass wood-basket over his arm and piled it full of nice split logs-- he'd need to split more as soon as he might, for the stack was dwindling. He hurried back in to the hole, letting himself in quietly and turning to close the door against the night. He couldn't resist a moment's hesitation, his hand on the knob; Mr. Merry's voice had a tone of confidences about it. 

"Well, I have to say I'm surprised at Bilbo's choice, Frodo, but it's not as though the lad isn't needed." 

Sam's ears fairly pricked; that had to mean him. 

"He certainly is." Mr. Frodo responded, calm but almost defensive. "And he's a fine choice for Bag End. It's all the same to me if he hasn't the training to valet in Brandy Hall. He's just what we need, no more and no less. Not to mention I wouldn't feel comfortable with a stranger about the place." 

"He seems to suit you." Mr. Merry admitted. "He certainly knows his business, and I daresay he likes it well enough, to look at him." 

"That he does. 'If he doesn't mind, he might fetch a bit of wood?'" The sound carried, Mr. Pippin's voice high and indignant. "And then he trots off just as quick as if you gave it to him sharp. I have to fetch my own firewood at the Great Smials; the servants ignore me as often as not!" 

"That's because your father told them you aren't to be pampered," Mr. Merry answered him, his amusement rich as the wine. "And you've a manner about you, Pippin, that would make even Sam's hackles rise, if you set about telling him to fetch and carry for you." 

"My father says I'm not to give orders to another gentlehobbit's servants, not without leave," Pippin responded, pert as you please. 

"Which you don't have, not with Sam," Frodo answered with a laugh, quick as lightning. "Perhaps you may when you're as old as Merry. But for now, if you need something ask me, and I'll decide whether he should do it." 

Sam's heart flooded full with a fierce, tender emotion that felt so sweet it nearly hurt. He made a bit of noise closing the door and pattering down the hall, and they fell silent. Pretending oblivion, he walked in and laid down his basket, bending to put a piece of wood in to the fading fire. 

"Sam," Pippin sounded thoughtful. "You always do whatever Frodo says, don't you." 

"Yes, sir, Master Pippin." Sam responded without hesitation. 

"No matter what it is?" 

"Yes, sir." Again, quick as thinking, feeling his back draw straight with pride. 

"Frodo," Pippin tilted his head, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Tell Sam to stand on one foot?" 

Frodo laughed. "Pippin, of course not." 

"But he said--" 

"I would," Sam said stoutly, daring a look at Frodo under his lashes. "If he asked, but he wouldn't never ask, and I know it." 

"How do you know?" 

Sam smiled a little and ducked his head, shrugging. 

"I wouldn't ask anyone to do something unless it was needed and necessary, or unless I thought it was something he wanted to do," Frodo said softly. "And Sam knows that." 

"Aye," Sam confirmed, voice soft but firm. _And I'd want to do anything you asked._

"I'd never tell Sam to stand on one foot just to please me or just to prove he would." Frodo sat back and thumbed some Longbottom Leaf into the bowl of his pipe. 

"That's just the sort of thing you'd be doing for fun, Pip." Merry gave Pippin a smile, softening the sting of his words. "And that's why the servants at the Great Smials do just as they like when you order them about." 

Frodo sat back, drawing a few puffs through his pipe to kindle it properly, and they sat in silence for a few moments while Pippin considered, chewing his lip. At last he raised his head and frowned at Sam. "Wouldn't you ever disobey Frodo?" 

Sam hesitated, thinking. "I suppose I might," he tried to sound careless, but he felt Mr. Frodo's eyes resting on him, and it made him squirm a bit. 

"Why?" Pippin persisted. 

"If I thought what he asked might bring him to harm." Sam shifted his feet, uncomfortable. It weren't right to say you thought you might know better than your own master, even just supposing, but such things had been known to happen. 

"But--" 

"Pippin." Mr. Frodo's voice warned, very gently. "That's enough." 

"Hear that, Pip?" Merry swallowed the last of his wine. "That's part of it too." 

Pippin looked crestfallen. "I didn't know there was so much to it; I just thought..." he sounded a little ashamed, glancing aside at Sam. "I thought all I had to do was say what I wanted." 

Frodo stood, his glass empty, and waving aside Sam's attempt to take over, he collected Merry's glass and went to the sideboard where the decanter stood. He set the two glasses next to a clean one that already stood waiting and poured good red wine into them all, then carried them back, giving the extra to Sam. "Sit with us?" his voice made it a question, not a requirement. 

"Thank you, sir." Sam took the wine carefully, uncomfortably conscious of the delicacy of the crystal glass between his callused, clumsy fingers. There was a small footstool standing near the fire, and Sam scooted it away from the hearth with his toes, sitting down at Mr. Frodo's knee. His heart beat fast, and he was almost breathless. He'd never heard such things discussed before, and he had an idea it weren't often done when there was servants present-- but it was such a thing as Master Pippin would need to know, him set to be the Thain one day and all. 

"I'm sorry, Sam." Pippin sounded truly contrite. "I hadn't thought of it that way." 

"That's all right, Master Pippin." Sam sipped the wine shyly, hoping he weren't showing too much cheek. "There's no harm done." 

Sam lifted his eyes to Mr. Frodo, hoping to change the subject. "I thought I'd chop more wood tomorrow, sir, if Mr. Bilbo don't want me for other things." 

"That sounds fine." Mr. Frodo smiled to Sam, eyes warm. 

"You don't even have to tell him what to do!" Pippin still sounded baffled. 

"I suppose Sam isn't really a fair example, Pippin." Mr. Frodo responded, without taking his eyes from Sam's. "The Gamgees have been with the Bagginses so long, they're more like family than servants." 

Sam blushed and looked down into his wine, trying to hide the delighted flutter in his belly. "You're too kind, Mr. Frodo." 

"Not at all." Frodo looked to Pippin again. "In case matters weren't already complicated enough, you can't handle all your servants the same way, Pippin. Some of them take more managing, I'm sure, but you'd have to ask Merry about that." 

"Like old Foxglove Sandheaver?" Merry chuckled. "She did laundry at the Hall, Pip, and she kept mixing the smallclothes. One time my father opened his chest and found my aunt Asphodel's--" 

Sam stayed quiet at Frodo's knee, sipping from his glass and listening, just soaking in the warmth of the fire and the strange, shy sensation of being included in something rather like companionship with the three gentlehobbits. He was tired, though, and his head was near to nodding, so he finished his wine, then waited for a lull in the talk. When it came he stood and bowed to them each in turn, Mr. Frodo first. "Begging your pardon, sirs, but if there's nothing else I can do, I'd best be off home. My old dad will wonder where I've got to." 

"Of course," Mr. Frodo murmured-- then stood with Sam, taking Sam's glass and setting it on the sideboard in spite of Sam's nervous look. Frodo just smiled and put a hand on Sam's shoulder to guide him, then walked him out to the front door just like a guest. Sam hesitated at the door, his heart full, but found no words, so he only returned Frodo's slow, secret smile and slipped out, his heart singing as he walked away down the Hill.


	38. Woodcutting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter draws on and Sam settles into his new job.

Frodo carefully kept his eyes on his pen as Sam described an elaborate circuit around the center of the door. He was carrying a tray with a kettle and cups of tea, and they rattled, but Sam never wavered, balancing them with care while making sure no portion of him passed beneath the innocent green sprig that hung from a nail over the very center of the portal. 

Pippin sat watching on the couch, fairly twitching with amusement and disappointment; he had made it his self-appointed duty to catch anyone in the house who walked beneath a bit of kissing bough. That included Bilbo, whose sputtering upon finding himself with an enthusiastic and affectionate armful of pre-tween Took had to be heard to be believed. 

"Your tea, Mr. Frodo. Master Pippin. Mr. Merry." Sam set it down and followed the same path back out again. Frodo let himself watch, this time. 

"He's getting good at that," Merry observed, a strangled laugh bottled up tight behind his voice. "And better at remembering, too." 

Pippin pouted at Merry. "He isn't the only one." 

"Drink your tea before it gets cold, Pip." Merry followed his own advice, and Frodo looked back down at the parchment, managing to lift his quill away before he made a blot on the page. He set the quill down in the ink-pot and helped himself to tea, reaching for the little pot of honey sitting on the tray. There was an extra spoon for the honey and three more for stirring. It seemed no amount of adversity could ruffle Sam to the point of providing poor service. 

"Sam, ready a hot bath." Bilbo's voice floated down the hall. "I'm going down to talk with Mayor Whitfoot about the timbering the Cottons are doing down south of Bywater." The bath chamber was one place that remained mercifully free of kissing bough, at Bilbo's insistence. Frodo picked up his quill again, considering the next line of his letter to his aunt Esmerelda. 

"Can I have a bath and go too?" Pippin bounced up, eager. 

"You certainly need one," Frodo wrinkled his nose, and Pippin tossed a pillow at him-- which made him blot the letter. Sighing, Frodo gave up. 

"Sam, heat enough water for Pippin, as well," Bilbo called. 

"Pippin, go and help Sam at the pump," Frodo suggested, lightly enough, but he met Pippin's eye. 

Pippin grimaced, but he went to do as Frodo said. Before Frodo could make up his mind whether to start his letter anew, Pippin and Bilbo were singing bathing songs in harmony-- between splashes. In the infrequent pauses, Frodo could hear Bilbo giving Sam instructions on how to prepare the Yule feast. He listened idly. He would have liked a bath as well, and had thought he might have one in the morning, but to have Sam draw it and stand by while he bathed? He hadn't yet mustered his courage to ask such a thing. Perhaps he might have his bath after Sam left for the evening. 

Frodo stretched with a sigh, crumpling his blotted parchment into a small ball and tossing it into the fire. Bilbo certainly knew how to keep Sam busy, it seemed, but Sam had not yet complained about his lot, working swift and steady, making few mistakes. 

Few, that is, except for the first time he had walked under the kissing bough, not knowing it was there. When he finally did Pippin was ready, and he instantly launched himself at Sam's chest. Sam shoved him off by reflex. They both went down with a bump and sat apart on the floor staring at one another, bewildered, until Pippin pointed to the arch of the door where the bough hung. Sam immediately flushed as crimson as Frodo had ever seen him and began mumbling apologies. 

Frodo had nearly choked struggling to hold back his laughter as Sam recovered and hoisted himself upright, then picked Pippin up and began to brush at him uselessly while Pippin, undaunted, continued the pursuit of his prize. 

He'd finally succeeded in kissing Sam soundly on both cheeks, and Sam, who could not possibly become any redder, had given Frodo a sheepish glance and fled. 

Frodo recalled himself to the present, where Merry was stirring, yawning so widely his jaw cracked. "I think I'll go and have a nap," Merry shut his book. "I'd nearly forgotten how drowsy the afternoons can get in Bag End. Nothing like Brandy Hall." 

"You just got up," Frodo chuckled, but Merry was right-- the smial would be quiet and empty with both Pippin and Bilbo gone. 

Merry stepped out, stretching his shoulders, and Sam stepped aside to let him pass and remained standing just outside the doorway, warily avoiding the threshold even though Pippin was occupied elsewhere. "Now that Mr. Bilbo and Master Pippin are set for baths, I'm going out to chop some more firewood, sir. We'll need plenty, what with the Yule cooking tomorrow and all." 

"Of course," Frodo rose, giving up on letter-writing for the morning. 

"Should we have some more delivered, do you think?" 

"It wouldn't hurt." Frodo nodded. "Beech or oak, if we can get it." 

"Pine burns up too quick," Sam agreed. 

Frodo barely remembered to duck sideways at the door, and then wished he hadn't. Sam averted his eyes politely, but the way he caught one wrist in his palm and wrung it clearly showed his discomfort. 

"I'll come out with you and have a look at the woodpile," Frodo said, feeling a bit awkward himself as he reached for his coat. It might sound as though he didn't trust Sam's judgment that they needed wood, but truth be told, he liked going outside with Sam, particularly when the house was full. It gave them a bit of time alone, though Sam was busy every minute. 

Sam made a noise of polite agreement and took his own coat from the rack, but he only slung it over one shoulder as they went down the hall to the back entry, and did not put it on. 

The day was crisp and clear, the sky a vast wash of faded blue. Water dripped everywhere, pattering off icicles in the branches of trees and making a soft chatter as it found channels to run downhill. Mounds and drifts of snow were shrinking under the sunlight, and Frodo smiled a little to himself as he felt the Sun pour down on his shoulders-- a bit too hot through his coat, as Sam had clearly expected. 

"It feels more like Spring than Yule," Frodo murmured, turning his face up to the Sun and opening his coat. 

"It does," Sam answered him shyly. "But it won't stay this way for long, I'm thinking." 

Together they walked to the garden shed and around to the south side of the yard, which lay in the lee of the wind. Under a flat roof and against the shed stood Bag End's wood-pile. The wood stores were starting to look low indeed; usually Bilbo used coal to heat water and often to heat the smial in winter, but he preferred wood for the cooking stove and cooking fires, since it burned cooler and made less-- and more pleasant-- smoke. 

"Perhaps I should have Farmer Cotton bring up a load or two of cut logs." Frodo walked under the roof and touched the end of one round stick; it was dry enough. 

"Most of what he's got on hand is full of knots and green, too," Sam mused. "The boys and me just sawed the earliest cutting down to lengths only a fortnight before the fire. I reckon we'd do better to buy from the Haywards down at Bywater." Sam blinked, then flushed and looked down at his toes. 

"Whatever you think," Frodo agreed easily. "You're the one who has to split it." 

"That I am." Sam vanished into the shed and came out with an axe and a wedge. He set them down and rolled a large ring of wood out, settling it flat in the mud and eyeing its surface critically. "That looks level enough," he said, almost to himself, and went under the overhang to fetch a few fat round logs. He stood one on end and picked up the axe. Frodo looked at the tool, curious-- it had one sharp end, and the back side was flat, like a hammer or a maul. 

"Do you mind if I stay?" Frodo felt strangely uncertain when Sam's eyes lifted to rest on his face. "It's much nicer outside than in that stuffy parlour." 

Sam cleared his throat, embarrassment flickering across his features. "I wouldn't mind even if it were my own land and I had a say." He lifted the axe. "Step back a bit, sir," he warned. "Sometimes splinters fly." 

Frodo nodded, feeling some of Sam's discomfort himself, and made a wide circuit around Sam as he began to swing. He occupied himself by peering into crannies of the garden, his feet sinking a little in the muddy earth. There were no daffodil shoots poking up yet; it was still too early. 

"Here, sir." The rhythm of chopping stopped behind him, and he turned to find Sam rolling out a large bit of log, setting it flat right in the middle of a bright patch of Sun. "You can sit for a while, if you like." 

"Thank you." Frodo wandered back to sit down, twisting a bit of straw between his fingers. He was not sure quite how frankly he dared watch Sam work. He looked over his shoulder to the smial, where the rearmost windows remained empty and still. 

"Come along now, stand up." Sam admonished a bit of wood that hadn't been sawed quite flat, propping it up on his wedge. Frodo let his eyes be drawn by Sam's voice, and he watched as Sam lifted his axe and swung, sharp and strong. The axe bit into the round and it cleaved nearly halfway through; Sam twisted the head of the axe and the wood groaned, creaking as it split right down to his chopping block. 

Sam tossed aside the smaller piece and set the rest up again, driving his axe down. It caught on a knot and the piece toppled; he shook it off the axe and set it up to chop again, moving in a comfortable, placid rhythm. 

Sam was beginning to sweat, Frodo noted, the skin of his throat gleaming wet. Frodo looked away, watching a crow skim the strong breeze over the Hill. They were shielded from it here, warmth gathering in the garden nook as the Sun rode high. 

"Doesn't the chopping hurt you where you were burned?" Frodo ventured when Sam detoured back under the roof for more wood. 

"It catches me a bit across the shoulders, but it ain't bad." Sam rolled his shoulders, then reached out for an armload of wood, stacking several rounds in the crook of his left arm with his right hand. "A few more days of woodcutting, and I won't hurt none at all." 

"Did the scars heal well?" Frodo wished he could see them, and he coloured a bit to hear himself make such a brazen hint. 

"They're still red, but they ain't rough." Sam came out and dumped his load by the block, then gathered up the split logs and carried them to the woodpile. He looked at Frodo for a second, then turned his gaze away, seeming shy. "It's right warm here in the lee, ain't it, sir." He turned his back and raised his arms, hands working at his buttons, and Frodo took a deep shuddering breath of the cool air, drawing it down deep into his lungs. When he breathed it back out again, he it seemed to wash all the dinginess of winter out of him, dispersing it into the clean air. 

He turned his face away, watching the crow again as it circled, breasting the wind and hovering in one spot above the Hill. "Yes. It's sheltered here," he answered, proud of the steadiness in his voice. 

The singing of the axe began anew, and let him know Sam had finished whatever he was going to do. Frodo looked back. Sam hadn't quite found the courage to remove his shirt, but it was open now, and tantalizing glimpses of his chest lay revealed between its edges, gleaming wet like his throat. Frodo felt the straw between his fingers break, and reached to pluck another. 

Frodo cleaned the husks of dried leaves off his new grass stem and looked up into the sky, where the sun dazzled his eyes. He heard wood splinter and fall, and could see Sam turning for another log from the corner of his eye. "I thought I'd lost you," he heard himself say, and could feel Sam look up quickly. The remark hung between them, and Frodo heard its echo with surprise; he had not intended to speak his thoughts aloud, but he felt better for it. 

"In the fire?" Sam sounded hesitant. 

"Yes, and before that, too." Frodo bit his lip, wondering at his own courage. "Do you know, Sam, I hardly realized how lonesome it could be in Bag End before you went away to Tighfield?" 

Sam was quiet for a moment. "It ain't my place to try to guess your thinking, sir." He pulled the axe out of a half-split log and brought it down again, but he didn't reach for another log, listening to Frodo. He leaned the axe on his block with its blade down and examined the haft, trailing his open palms over it lightly as though he were afraid it might give him splinters. Frodo twisted the dry grass between his fingers, bending and folding it. 

"It was like the Sun went behind a cloud. I missed you for days, hardly knowing what was wrong until one day I saw the Gaffer in the garden, and I realized how long it was since I had seen you." Frodo threw away his crumpled bit of straw; Sam stood still, listening. "It was like a thief had come in to the smial and taken something small. Something my eyes missed every time they moved over the hole that it once filled, without seeing it was gone until one day I went to put my hand on it and found that space empty. Only then did I understand how precious that small thing was to me." 

Frodo got up, self-conscious, and strolled to the far end of the yard-- there were only a few steps before the picket fence blocked his path. 

"Well, I'm back." Sam sounded a bit hoarse, and very embarrassed. "And I ain't going nowhere." 

"You are more than a servant to me, Sam." Frodo lifted his face again and looked into the Sun. "You're my friend." 

"You don't have to be telling me that." Sam's voice fell, gentle. "I reckon even a fool like me can see it, after this long." 

Frodo dared to look over his shoulder and found Sam standing still, holding a piece of new-split wood between his hands. His eyes were earnest, his face open; a faint breeze played in his hair, sending the Sun sparking through it. It caught his shirt and teased at it, flipping its collar back and forth. 

Frodo stepped forward, heart in his throat, hardly feeling the cold wet earth beneath his feet, till he stood before Sam. A large speckle of dried mud stained Sam's cheek, and he reached to brush it away. Sam's eyes closed, and Frodo swallowed hard, wanting. Wanting so much, but wanting even more to be sure he was doing the right thing. His thumb brushed over the spot, flaking the mud to dust. He drew back his hand and licked his forefinger, then tried again. He could feel Sam's sigh against his cheek, and the warmth of his skin, and he ached for more. 

Trembling, Frodo drew back. _Not yet. Too soon._ Sam's eyes opened, their warm brown shot through with golden-green, catching the light like wells of summer sunshine through a canopy of leaves. 

"I'm delaying you," Frodo whispered. 

Sam's smile stretched, a little crooked. "I don't mind it, sir." He picked up the axe again and set another round atop his chopping block. 

Frodo sat down, watching the gleam of the axe flashing in the sun and the soft dark ringlets of hair that formed and clung against Sam's neck. The Sun shone brightly down as it reached its highest arch in the sky, and the sheltered nook filled with a drowsy heat. Frodo blinked sleepily, stifling a yawn-- then watched, sitting very quiet and still, as Sam finally put down his axe and shed his shirt completely, shyly turning his back. 

Frodo breathed deep, letting his eyes caress the golden-gleaming shift of Sam's muscles, of his arms and back, beautiful even under the mottled, fading red of his burns. Then Sam turned back to his work and Frodo let his eyes wander, admiring the sweat-darkened mat of hair on Sam's chest. His breath caught short as his eyes followed the sure flex and stroke of Sam's arms as the axe rose and fell. He tried to breathe without struggling, suddenly unable to get enough of the clean winter air. Sam's cheeks were bright pink, and not from the Sun at all, Frodo thought, but he couldn't make himself stop staring. 

The mound of split wood grew little by little, and when Sam stopped to carry it in, Frodo stood. "Let me help?" Frodo stepped near him slowly and reached for two split logs. "If I won't be in the way." 

Sam just smiled and shook his head 'no,' so Frodo stacked the split wood while Sam went for fresh logs. That was how late afternoon found them, sharing the work as the shadows stretched slowly across the Hill and the breeze freshened until Sam shouldered first back in to his shirt, and then later in to his jacket. Presently the last log was split and piled, and he smiled shyly at Frodo. 

"I'd best get inside and rinse my hands, then put the kettle on," Sam murmured. "The stew ought to be done by now, I reckon, and Mr. Merry will be wanting a bite of supper." 

"Supper would taste good," Frodo admitted, and led Sam inside.


	39. Contentment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yule feasting leads to a pleasant evening.

The Yule feast at Bag End was a lavish and joyous affair; Sam and Bilbo bumped elbows in the kitchen all day long, Sam peeling potatoes or basting roast meat or stirring gravy when he wasn't running back and forth to the woodpile and to Hobbiton for a few last-minute purchases of necessary ingredients. Bilbo supervised the progress of steaming kettles and spiced the ham with cloves, fussing over the apple stuffing or watching as Sam boiled and mashed the potatoes, melting a whole pound of creamy yellow butter in to the pot. 

When the table was set, it fairly groaned under the weight of all the food, enough for eight hobbits or more, not four-- and that was a good thing, Sam reckoned, knowing Mr. Pippin's appetite. As the other hobbits sat down at the table, he buried his arms up to the elbows in soapsuds, washing crocks and pans in the kitchen. He reckoned himself glad to get a head start on the clean-up, as there looked to be plenty more forthcoming. 

By the time the feast was finished, the lively laughter and the singing had died down to occasional mellow chuckles, and there was more sighing than talk-- sighing and loosening of belts, and occasional belches politely muffled behind the palm of a hand. Sated, Mr. Bilbo scraped his chair back on the tile, nodded his head, and looked about the table with heavy-lidded eyes. 

"A fine Yule feast, and all the finer for your help, Samwise!" Bilbo nodded through the door in to the kitchen at Sam, who was busy with a drying cloth and a copper pot. He patted his weskit, where the buttons strained to contain his belly. "We've done all the damage we can do, and I don't believe I'll want any breakfast. You sit down here at the table and finish up the leftovers before you finish the tidying, Sam. There's a good lad." Bilbo heaved himself to his feet. "I believe I'll have a nap." With that, he shuffled down the hall, yawning into his palm. 

"Who's for a bit of port in the parlour?" Frodo looked equally well-fed, slouched in his chair with his thumb behind his braces. "I saw Sam carrying the tray in earlier." 

"I'll have a swallow." Merry stretched, luxuriant. "But if Pippin swallows another bite or a sup, he might explode!" 

Pippin popped a last bite of buttered roll into his mouth and chewed. "I could eat that much again," he lied staunchly; he'd been first to loosen his belt. "But a glass of port would taste good." 

"If you've ever had port, you were sneaking about after your father and mother went to bed, drinking the dregs out of the glasses," Merry accused. "You've only been drinking your wine without water since your last birthday!" 

Pippin was too full to argue, but he gave Merry a wounded stare and got up without a word, stalking into the parlour for the promised port with all the dignity he could muster-- spoiled by having to hitch up his breeches halfway there when one of his braces fell off his shoulder. Sam stifled a chuckle to watch him. 

Merry and Frodo followed rather more lazily, with a bit of grunting and stretching as they left the table. After a brief creaking and rustling of chairs as they sat down, peace descended. 

Sam finished tidying up the pots and pans and paused for a moment to listen before going in to fix himself a plate. For once the smial was quiet-- or as quiet as might be expected; snoring drifted in from the parlour like a droning of wind in the leaves. 

Not that he minded the snoring. Mr. Bilbo had given him a job to finish, and he meant to do as he was told. Not that it was a task beyond his reach-- the leftover food wasn't as much as might be expected, and that was a fact. The four masters had eaten dinner enough for six, but Sam and Mr. Bilbo had cooked for eight, which meant there was quite enough left for him. 

He carried the dirty plates into the kitchen, piling them in the basin, before sitting down at the table to make his own meal. Through the hall he could just see Mr. Frodo sitting in his wide, soft armchair; his book was sagging towards his belly as he began to drowse. His colour was high, cheeks flushed pink from food and the warm hearth. Sam felt a smile curve his mouth; that was what he liked to see: Mr. Frodo contented with fine eating and surrounded by the company of his friends, comfortable and peaceful. It pleased Sam to know he'd done so much to make it so. 

Sam stripped the last bits of meat off the roast goose's breastbone and laid it on his plate, then piled up a heaping mound of taters beside, and one of green peas. He mixed up the peas and taters together, which would have made his old dad frown, but he liked them that way, and it weren't like anyone would be stirring out of the parlour soon. He reached and took the heel of the bread, and after a moment's thought took the ham-bone off its platter too. It still had plenty of good meat on it, clinging to the shank. For afters, he pulled the remains of a dish of sugared apples over within easy reach of his plate, and also took the butter dish. 

He poured out the last of the wine into his glass and sipped it, letting his eyes close. It was like being the master of the smial himself, in a way, making free to sit at table and have a proper Yule feast. The fare was fine as he'd ever had, for all that these were leavings-- they were more than fine enough for Sam. He'd earned them with all his day's work, and though Mr. Bilbo kept him hard at it, it weren't in Mr. Baggins' nature to short him his reward, neither. 

By the time his stomach was so full he felt he might have to roll himself into the kitchen, the platters were empty and the fire had burned low in the parlour. Sam roused himself with an effort and went to put another log on the fire, moving stealthy-like. Mr. Pippin was curled up on the horsehair-and-velvet sofa, his cheek on Mr. Merry's knee. Mr. Merry had loosened both waistband and weskit and sat with his arms spread over the back of the chair, head tilted back, snoring lustily. 

Mr. Frodo sat more delicately, one leg drawn up in his chair, but he had nodded over his book. His chin rested on his chest and the book on his belly. Sam picked it up softly so that none of the precious pages would be bent. He laid a ribbon inside to mark Frodo's place and put it on a stack of others at the side of Frodo's chair, then reached into the wood-bin for a stick of the firewood he'd split. 

He laid it on the fire, careful not to make a noise, but as he straightened, he caught a gleam of light and the movement of eyes under Mr. Frodo's lashes. He was playing the possum then, not sleeping at all. Sam smiled, and Frodo's eyes opened. He didn't speak for a moment, watching Sam feed the fire. 

"Leave the dishes for a bit," Frodo murmured when Sam straightened. "You've eaten enough for two, I guess. It isn't good for you to work hard right after you eat so much." 

Sam blushed a bit, thinking of his master watching him eat. Frodo's smile widened, and he squirmed in his chair, settling himself next to the arm. 

"Sit a while and read with me?" He made it a question, not a command. 

Sam hesitated, torn between shyness and yearning. He and Mr. Frodo used to curl up in this chair to read together when he'd been just a lad, but they hadn't done it for some few years even before Sam went off to Tighfield. To do it now.... 

His eyes flickered to Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, but they never stirred, raspy breath coming through Merry's nose and throat like the whining of a cross-cut saw. They hadn't stirred none at Frodo's voice, and it looked like they mightn't for hours. That firmed his mind. 

Shyly Sam stepped near and slipped into Mr. Frodo's chair at his side. It was such a chair as was meant for someone of full habit-- a state wealthy hobbits were likely to achieve, if left to their own devices-- and there was just enough room for the two of them, if they were friendly about it. 

Mr. Frodo sighed, his body snugged up tight against Sam's. Shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh they were, and it made Sam's face go hot. Frodo didn't seem to mind, though, picking up his book again. He burrowed under Sam's arm and turned himself so that Sam could see its pages, too. 

When Mr. Frodo's knees somehow crooked themselves over Sam's thigh, it was obviously the most innocent and practical way of sharing the book between them, and gave them a good way of propping it, besides. Never mind that Frodo hooked his left foot behind Sam's leg, and the soft curls on Frodo's foot tickled at Sam's calf in such a way as to make his mouth go dry. Never mind that Frodo's slim body fit just so inside the curl of Sam's arm, warming him deep, all the way to his heart, which held such places as the hearthfire couldn't reach even with its merry, baking heat. Never mind that when Sam was a little lad, he'd sat under Mr. Frodo's arm-- and not with their legs tangled, neither. 

"I'm not too heavy, am I, Sam?" Frodo's voice was very soft, a little uncertain. 

Sam swallowed, struggling with a lump in his throat that felt like tears, and trying to reconcile it with the warm feeling of well-being and the shiver of exquisite, velvet awareness that spread all over his skin from the places where it touched Frodo's. "You ain't," he whispered, hearing the husk in his voice. "You're just fine." 

Even as he spoke his mind flickered to a memory of his father, remembering the weight of that familiar, callused hand on his shoulder. "Don't 'ee go wallowing about climbin' on the young master no more, Samwise. He ain't a tree, and it ain't right for 'ee to be puttin' your dirty great feet all over his fine clothes. I won't have it." He hadn't done it no more, though Mr. Frodo hadn't never seemed to mind him doing it. For a long time he hadn't understood why he shouldn't, not till the day by the well when Mr. Frodo first looked at him with a strange, bright light in his eyes, and Sam's old Dad made him put his shirt back on in spite of the heat of the day. 

And now? Now he understood the reasoning more than ever, even though part of him still didn't know why he'd ever been made to stop. Being tangled up with his master in such a way... it felt like coming home and more, sweet and right and strangely shy-making in the way it set his belly aflutter. 

"Shall we read the tale of Urwendi and the last flower of Laurelin?" So soft, Mr. Frodo's voice, and his eyes so warm and so close. 

"I'd like that." Sam swallowed hard, his heart full near to bursting. He'd always loved to hear how the Sun and the Moon come to be in the sky, and Frodo remembered, bless him. It was almost like all the long, lonely times and the pain and distance that had come between them never happened. 

Mr. Frodo sighed long and gentle with contentment, settling in as he thumbed through the pages of the book to find the tale. Sam reached to hold up his half of the book's weight and their heads bent together, mouths shaping words until sleep stole over them both, and they fell still.


	40. Morning Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo's bath proves to be anything but relaxing.

It is morning in Bag End, the morning of a crisp, frosty day in Afteryule. The day is Highday, market day, and Frodo's friends have plans-- plans that probably include an intention to visit every inn within a half-day's ride, but plans nonetheless. Fatty Bolger and Folco Boffin have come to Hobbiton and are staying in the Ivy Bush, and there will be a merry meeting. Frodo expects ale to drink, and good times, free times, a chance to be young and carefree and out from under the watchful eyes of uncles and parents. 

Such plans, however, require a bath, and Frodo could find no other way to adjust his schedule, so he is in Bag End's bathing room with Merry, sitting in the leftmost of the two luxurious tubs, washing himself hastily with a cloth and hardly daring to enjoy the warm water. He has sneaked in to the bath without notice, listening to Sam's cheerful humming in the kitchen. He has poured his own bath, as stealthy as he might. Merry is already chest-deep in hot water, singing lustily, and Pippin has finished and swathed himself in towels and gone to drip all over the floor in other parts of the Smial. 

As he climbs in to the tub, Frodo thinks he might manage to avoid Sam's notice. 

In the parlour, Bilbo is listing orders for Sam, voice cheerful but stern. Sam's soft replies go almost unheard, mingling their slow, thoughtful tempo with the faster pace of his breakfast preparations. The thump of a cupboard and a "Yes, Mr. Bilbo." A hiss of frying bacon and an "Of course, sir." The chatter of china and silver nearly drowns his quiet "When should I light the fires to warm the smial ready for the lads when they come home?" 

Bilbo eventually pads off, passing the door with laughter and a cheery warning; he calls to Merry to mind the plaster and stop his splashing. He is to be out of the hole today also, out and off to the southern end of the Shire, where he hopes to meet with a party of dwarves. Such meetings are not rare, though Frodo has noticed they have been rather more frequent for the past year. Bilbo has business with the dwarves, he explains, but he will not make himself more clear. 

"Sam, a bit more hot water for me, please?" Merry calls over his shoulder. "If you have a moment." 

Frodo's mouth is very dry, and his heart beats fast. He can still hear Merry's casual request echoing in the corners of the room, and Sam's murmured answer from no further away than the hall: "Of course, Mr. Merry," and the soft pat of Sam's footsteps on the flagstone floor as he enters. Frodo sinks down in to the bathtub, shoulders feeling the easy slide of wood polished smooth by years of wet skin. The water isn't any good for concealment; it's shallow, clear, and clean, and there aren't many bubbles. 

Sam picks up a large wooden pail, its iron-bound bottom scuffing the floor. He takes it to the fireplace, wrapping his arm in a towel to shield his skin before dipping the bucket carefully into the fat iron pot suspended there, which is nearly big enough for a hobbit to curl up in and is presently full of steaming hot water. Merry is still singing in his bath, but Frodo doesn't join him. He spreads his washing cloth over his lap and pretends interest in his toes, wanting too much to look up and see Sam there, polished golden by the light from the fire which dances under the pot, so very close. 

His shyness isn't fair, and Frodo knows this. He has seen Sam naked a hundred times and more; he has memorized the dip and arch of Sam's spine and the curve of his sturdy hip. He has touched Sam's skin, run his hands along the shape of Sam's broad shoulders, all hard muscle and strong bone. He's slid his fingers through Sam's hair and watched Sam shiver. He's held Sam in his hand, once and once only, when Jolly wasn't there to help, and he watched Sam's face flush with deep colour as they waited. 

These aren't the thoughts he should be having now. They make his breath short and they make his skin tingle, and he is responding to the memory in a way he couldn't afford, not when it was real. He can't afford it now, not with Sam so near. 

Sam is pouring the pail of hot water in to Merry's tub, and Merry is sighing with pure, luxuriant pleasure. Frodo's hackles rise without intention. Envy stabs him, bright and sharp. He pretends to rinse one arm, lifting water cupped in his other hand, leaving the cloth in his lap. The water prickles chill on his skin, and he shivers before he can stop himself. In his haste to be done he stinted at filling his tub, and did not take his full share of the hot water that had been prepared for his bath. 

Sam turns immediately, heading back towards the fireside with his pail, and Frodo trembles now for a different reason than the cold. Sam fills the pail again and turns to him, walking to the side of the tub, placing his feet as carefully as though he is afraid of startling a woodland deer. Frodo looks down along the length of his own body, which is slender and pale. The water ripples, distorting his limbs as he moves, a nervous shift of his hips against the slick wet wood. 

Sam tips the bucket and pours with that same careful grace, and the heat of the water flushes through Frodo like his own lust. Before he realizes, the washcloth has been lifted away by the current, and now Sam can see him. He is exposed, and he is aroused. He only just catches a whimper in his throat, feeling his face burn. 

He catches the cloth, a rough wet bunch in his fist, and holds it, paralyzed. He can see Sam's profile in the corner of his vision; Sam is half-leaned over the tub. He is very steady, his motions solid and sure. 

It seems to take forever for Sam to pour the water-- he is unhurried, taking care not to burn Frodo by dumping the near-boiling water in to the tub all at once. Frodo doesn't dare look at Sam's face. Years ago he once bared himself to Sam's gaze with hardly a thought past the ripple of pleasure he took from Sam's wide eyes, but he is no longer so careless. 

The pail is empty at last, and Sam lifts it away. He goes to feed the fire and pumps fresh water in to the pail, re-filling the iron pot for Mr. Bilbo's bath. Frodo can steal a glance at last, knowing Sam's high colour does not come from the steam of the hot water. There is a tremor in Sam's hands now; Frodo can see it distinctly. 

Merry is still singing, splashing happily. Frodo lets himself slide down, the water rising on his skin, its level climbing up until it covers his face and drenches his hair. He holds his breath for a long moment, then surfaces, eyes closed. He can feel the gaze before he opens his eyes to look straight into it, catching the last flicker of worry fading into heat. 

Sam immediately snatches his eyes away and straightens, dusting his hands. "Just shout if you need aught else." His voice is quite steady, if a bit lower than his wont. 

Frodo should speak; he should thank Sam. He should make the moment careless, make Merry laugh with quick, bright words, but no matter how heavy the burden of the moment's meaning, he will not shed its load while he may yet bear it. 

"We will," Merry splashes with his feet. "Thank you." He ducks under the water and comes up sputtering noisily, as happy as a fish. "I could eat all of that ham I saw you carrying into the kitchen." 

"If you do, then I'll fetch another, Mr. Merry." Sam smiles just a little and he steps out, his composure seeming unruffled. 

Tonight Frodo knows Sam will serve at table, reaching over Frodo's shoulder with steady, strong hands; he will pour wine and he will not speak unless he is spoken to. The ghost of this moment will fade, submerged but present-- like Frodo's own desire, plain to be seen from just the proper angle, but never quite acknowledged. 

Frodo sighs and reaches for the soap.


	41. Beekeeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam help to hive a swarm of bees.

The breeze was soft with Spring warmth and the Sun hung golden and gentle in a morning sky dotted with white, feathery clouds-- all in all a perfect day, if only the air weren't filled with bees. Sam heard them the moment he left his hole and ventured out into the Row, a heavy, anxious hum that made a menacing undertone to the peaceful morning. 

He turned right around and went back inside the hole and put on his winter shirt and breeches as quick as he might, buttoning them up tight at the throat and wrists, and hurried out again. 

"There 'ee are, Sam Gamgee," Adley Meadowes was toiling up the road, a ladder under his arm and a wooden box in his hand with sheets and a smudge-pot inside. "You ain't afraid of bees, are you? I can't handle this on my own, but my dad's off to Bywater and my brother's tucked up in bed with the croup. If we don't hive this lot fast, there's no telling where they might make off." 

"I ain't, much," Sam allowed cautiously, and he tore a ragged strip off one of the sheets that dangled out of the edge of Adley's box, bending to tie shut the legs of his breeches. He'd seen a swarm collected a time or two before, but he hadn't never helped do it. Finishing his preparations, he trotted down and caught one end of the heavy ladder, and they set out up the Hill. 

"They don't sting you much when they're swarming, if you've got sense enough to move slow and not fight them." Adley quickened his pace now that he didn't have the whole ladder to carry himself. 

Sam nodded; he'd noticed that on his own. "Where do you think they'll settle?" 

"Where do they always?" Adley chuckled ruefully. "Seems like they're never happier than when they've found themselves a perch right up on the top of the tree over Bag End, where you have to climb both Hill and tree to get at them." 

Sam nodded. "Well then, I reckon it's my business to help you, seeing as how them gardens are mine to tend this Spring." He drew up his shoulders, aware of his pride in his responsibility; it helped him face his fear of the swarm. 

"I thought you might see it that way." Adley nodded with sharp satisfaction. 

The swarm grew thicker as he trotted up the Hill-- the thickest he'd ever seen, with bees so plentiful they dimmed the Sun as he neared the round green door of Bag End. "This is bound to be more than a hive," Sam protested. "I've never seen so many bees in all my days!" All the round mullioned windows were tight-shut, and Mr. Bilbo's face peered out from one, questioning. Sam gave him a firm nod and received a satisfied wave. 

"It is," Adley answered him. "They're not from my hives, at any rate. They must be wild bees, Sam. Mice probably got into one of the honey trees in the wood hereabouts and ran them out. Some of those trees are hollow from core to crown; they've been standing for years. They've more bees in them than I could count-- this has to be a swarm from one of those." 

"Have you got a hive that will hold them all?" Sam led Adley around to the steep stair that climbed onto the Hill above the smial. 

"I've got Clover setting up a nice tall one in the hayfield next to the others. It won't hold them all, but it will hold a tidy few. Then I'll set up some more empty frames and put wax about; they can breed more queens for each hive if they've a mind to. We'll lose some of the workers, but not all." They climbed carefully, having to brush bees off the flagstone steps before they could go on. Sure enough, there was a seething, writhing ball of bees visible clinging to a branch near the top of the tree-- a mass of bees almost as big as Sam himself. 

"This box won't hold all that." Sam squirmed, nervous in spite of himself. 

"That it won't." Adley paused, frowning. "And we don't want to break up the ball, or we'll lose more bees. I'll have to scoop them into a sack, Sam." He had a big one, longer than he was tall. "I reckon you know you're going to have to climb with me." 

Sam swallowed hard; below and out of eyesight he heard the door open and shut quick but soft. "Mr. Frodo, you go back indoors, begging your pardon, sir," he called, somehow certain of his guess. 

"You may need help." Frodo's call came from the side yard, nearing the same steps they'd just climbed. 

Adley rolled his eyes toward the firmament as though begging mercy, clearly exasperated. "That Brandybuck won't be no help," he mumbled. "Likely he'll get bees in his hair and run crazy like a maid." 

"That he won't," Sam muttered, just as soft. "He can hold the ladder, Adley. Just you let me tell him." He raised his voice. "Climb right soft-like, sir-- they won't be likely to sting you if you don't scare them or fight them none. I reckon we'll need a steady hand to hold the ladder." 

"All right." Frodo sounded calm and determined. "I'll be right up." 

They stepped past one of the chimney-pipes just as a puff of white smoke wafted out. "Mr. Bilbo's had sense enough to light the fires," Adley grunted. "That's good; we won't find the queen gone off into one of his chimneys where we can't get her out." 

He set down his box and went to prop the ladder, moving soft like, and Sam fished out a tinderbox and lit the smudge-pot as Frodo approached, moving slowly. He did have bees in his hair, and one crawling on his cheek, but he was steady, ignoring them just like Sam was himself. 

"If they get angry, Mr. Frodo, the smoke will calm them. You go stand over one of the chimneys if they get annoyed; they won't fly into smoke and you'll be all right." 

Frodo nodded, but didn't look as sincere as Sam might have hoped. 

"Frodo-lad, you be careful out there!" Mr. Bilbo's voice wafted up through the nearest chimney-pipe, sounding annoyed, and Sam chuckled, glancing at Frodo to see his reaction. Their eyes met, and Frodo smiled. 

"He knows you right well," Sam said softly. "Promise me you'll go stand in the smoke if summat goes wrong." He heard his voice change halfway through, falling lower, coaxing somehow, only not with the sort of wheedle and whine he might have used-- but with something soft like he could see in Frodo's own eyes. 

"I will." Frodo's eyes never left his. "If you will too." 

"I will if I can." Sam felt his hands start in to trembling, and that just wouldn't do. "I've had stings before, sir, and it won't do no lasting harm if I get a few more, I reckon." 

"You ready, Sam?" Adley called impatiently. "If they find someplace else to make a nest, they'll fly off before we ever get near hiving them." 

Sam stepped forward with Frodo close behind him and started up the ladder. He felt it steady as Frodo's hands closed on the posts, and he was glad of Frodo's help-- the grass up here on the Hill was rich and deep and slippery, and the Hill sloped at a steep angle. It fair made his head dizzy to think of the drop behind him. 

"I'll climb off the ladder and on to the bough," Adley planned aloud. "You'll have to hold the sack, Sam." He passed it down and Sam draped it over his shoulder, waiting as Adley awkwardly shimmied off the ladder, cursing at a sting as his clothes pressed a bee or two against bare skin. 

Sam spared a wish for some thick gloves, but it was too late for planning now. He opened the sack's wide mouth. 

"They're just bees, and they don't look like much, but they'll be heavy," Adley warned. "Let me know if the sack starts getting too heavy to hold." 

"Frodo! What are you doing?" Pippin Took's sharp soprano pierced the air and Adley groaned. 

"Can't that Mr. Bilbo keep them relatives of his inside?!" The bough wobbled. 

"Stay down in the yard, Pip!" Frodo's voice piped up sharp. "And Merry too. We don't need any more hands up here." 

"If he can keep them down there he'll be a help after all." The mutter wasn't as quiet as Sam would have liked Adley to keep it. 

Pippin shrieked, and Sam dared a glance over his shoulder, his head spinning from the height; Pippin was foolishly slapping at a bee that had gotten into his hair. He groaned aloud. 

"Merry, take him in," Frodo's voice cut the air sharply. "And stay inside till this is done!" 

The door snapped to sharply after a brief pause, muffling Pippin's yelping, and Sam heaved a sigh of relief, turning his eyes upwards. Adley was creeping along the shaky branch. 

"Put the mouth of the sack under the ball." Adley spat out a bee impatiently, making a sound of pain in his throat. He clenched his teeth to speak again. "The whole ball may fall at once; don't you fall with it." 

Sam hastily obeyed and braced himself as Adley reached carefully towards the ball and began to brush at it, working to separate it from the bough intact-- Bees surged up in a cloud, buzzing frantically around Sam's ears, and Sam tried not to breathe any through his nostrils, wishing he had a cloth over his face. There were more bees than he'd ever imagined, crawling over his face and ears and nose and mouth, in his hair and even down inside his buttoned-up collar. A million tiny crawling legs and feet, skitter-prickling horribly over his skin-- 

He shut his eyes, and then they were on his eyelids, too, and he nearly panicked, shaking on the ladder. 

"Steady, Sam!" Frodo's voice, gentle and tense. "The bees are about to fall--" 

There was a winged brush at his hands; the sack was suddenly terribly heavy, and the buzzing exploded in Sam's ears. 

"Shut the sack!" Adley whispered, teeth still clenched, and Sam did, his left elbow locked around the post of the ladder, muffling the terrible shrill buzz. He got a half-dozen stings on his hands and arms, and he nearly forgot and opened his mouth, but stifled his cry on his tongue at the last instant, pinching his mouth shut tight. He scented smoke and felt a pressure on his calf, and realized Frodo was close on the ladder beneath him, waving the lit smudge-pot around Sam as high as he could reach. 

Frodo... Panic shifted, flared bright and settled into worry, and Sam was himself again, the bees half-forgotten except as a threat to his master. 

"Have you got the sack?" Adley's voice, sibilant, still teeth-clenched. "Can you climb down with it in your hands?" 

Sam fumbled for a rung with his right foot by way of answer; but the sack was too heavy to carry one-handed. "No," he managed, opening his mouth as little as he might. "Mr. Frodo, climb down!" If he dropped the swarm--! 

"I've got the bottom of the sack." A bit muffled, Mr. Frodo's voice, but still calm. "I'll hold the weight while you take a step." 

Sam chewed at his tongue, frantic with worry, but the weight had eased enough that he could hold the sack shut with one hand, and so they worked their way down, Frodo supporting the bees, until they stood on the ground again and there was no need. Sam carefully wiped bees off his face with his free hand and dared to open his eyes; Frodo was in at least as bad a state as he was, which was to say he was speckled with crawling black insects, and had a few welts on his bare skin, too-- and he hadn't never made no whimper. 

"Don't you move," Sam spoke up sharp. "Not no more." Motion where there shouldn't ought to be none told him there were bees inside Frodo's shirt and breeches or he was a rabbit, and they'd be stinging him if he upset them. Sam's own tight-cuffed shirt and leg-tied breeches had kept most of the insects out; he was right glad he'd buttoned his collar and cuffs and before he'd ever come up the Hill. 

Frodo went still and waited; Adley looked between them for a moment, blinking a little, then carefully took the sack of bees from Sam's hand. "Thank you, Sam. I'll have a bit of honey for you later by way of reward, and for you too, Mr. Frodo." He had the grace to look shamefaced. "I reckon I thought you'd hinder more than helping, Mr. Frodo, but I was wrong, seemingly." He set off down the hill. "I'll come back later for the ladder and all," he called over his shoulder. 

"Now just you let me help you," Sam muttered, stepping forward and fumbling at Frodo's buttons. "I don't know what possessed you to come out in the first place," he fretted. "You wearing just that thin shirt and all! Not even no braces." He peeled back the shirt as careful as ever he might. "And without tying up the legs of your breeches. You'll be stung to death, sir, and I won't have it!" his tongue suddenly froze, and he realized he had his fingers inside Frodo's waistband, unfastening the breeches to take them off him-- worse, here he was ordering Mr. Frodo about, and stripping him down to his skin right on the Hill, and it broad daylight and all, where anyone could see what he was about! 

Frodo's chest rose and fell quickly; he was staring at Sam with wide, dark eyes. His cheeks were rosy and his lips parted. He shifted his legs, and the breeches loosened. Sam hastily shut his own mouth and made sure his hands were outside Mr. Frodo's smallclothes before he peeled the breeches off-- it was too late to back down, and there were bees inside the trousers, crawling about Frodo's thighs and his knees. Sam steeled himself to businesslike motion as he eased Mr. Frodo's breeches off, and most of the bees with them. At least the smallclothes were tight enough to keep them out, he judged. 

"Now get in that smoke," he heard his own voice hoarse. "Them bees will follow Adley, I reckon, if we wait. He's got the queen and all. I'll just shake these out." 

Frodo obeyed, and Sam shook the clothes gentle-like and then inspected them to be sure all the bees were gone. Sure enough, the swarm was dispersing, humming off down the Road after the queen, who was safely shut up in Adley's sack. Frodo was welted in a dozen places or more; Sam could see out of the corner of his eye. More than Sam, for all that he'd been further from the ball. Mostly on his chest and legs and back. It was them loose, open clothes. Sam shook his head. 

"Mr. Frodo," he heard his voice waver, and he fell silent for a moment, weighing words, trying to decide how to continue. "I appreciate the help, sir. It come in right handy," he finally finished. He laid Frodo's shirt and breeches over his arm and stepped near to the chimney. Frodo was pale, his skin the same soft pink-white as the throat of the seashell Mr. Bilbo kept on his mantel; in spite of the red welts, Frodo's eyes were shining and his breath quick. 

"I'm glad I could help you, Sam," Frodo murmured, and reached for his shirt. Sam walked around him, brushing off a lingering bee and extracting a stinger or three carefully, scraping them off with his blunt thumbnail, then helped Frodo into the shirt and the breeches again. His Gaffer was out in the yard at Number Three, staring up the Row right at them; Sam would have felt the weight of his father's eyes even if he hadn't seen the Gaffer watching already. 

When Mr. Frodo's breeches were buttoned up again, you might think everything was normal, if not for the way Sam couldn't hardly stop touching his master with eyes and hands, trembling as he remembered how he'd spoke up sharp about what to do, and how Mr. Frodo had done it right away, without a question. Combing a last bee out of Mr. Frodo's hair with his fingers, he made himself step back proper. The Gaffer was stumping up the Road now, his walking stick raising little puffs of dust. 

"Your Gaffer," Frodo murmured. 

"He ain't got naught to say I ain't already heard." Sam shrugged, feeling suddenly shy. Frodo led the way as they climbed back down in to the yard. The Gaffer was waiting at the gate by the time they came about to the front door. 

"Sam, 'ee forgot to bring along your pipeweed pouch," Gaffer scowled and held it out in his palm. "How 'ee plan to take care of Mr. Frodo when 'ee take him out in the bees but 'ee can't even chew him a poultice after, I don't know." He touched his cap to Frodo. "I reckon I raised a ninnyhammer, sir, but he means well." 

Sam blinked and stepped down to take the pouch, so flabbergasted he didn't find no words. 

"He does mean well, and he isn't foolish." Frodo's tone was polite but stern, velvet around steel. "It was my own choice to come out and help with the swarm. Sam takes care of me very well indeed." Frodo stepped up to Sam's side, and to Sam's surprise, he placed a protective hand on Sam's arm-- protective and more than subtly possessive. "And I take care of him, also." 

Gaffer's eyes flickered down to Frodo's hand; he stared at it for a long moment. Then he raised his eyes, and Sam near stepped back to see the anger smouldering in them. "See that 'ee do." His voice was sharp, and there weren't no 'sir' on his tongue, neither. 

"I have no plans to stop." Frodo's voice was as cool as his hand was warm. "Ever." Sam could almost feel the sharp edge of Frodo's stare as it passed over his shoulder. 

"I'll hold 'ee to that. Mind me right sharp, be ye Baggins or be ye no!" Gaffer Gamgee met Mr. Frodo's eyes for a long moment in which Sam held his breath, his heart thumping; he hadn't never seen his father so bold, nor heard him come so close to a threat. 

Frodo held his silence-- and his stare, if Sam was any judge, though he didn't dare turn to see, dropping his eyes to his toes, confusion and shame mingled thick in him. The Gaffer finally huffed, dropping his eyes just like Sam. "Sam, 'ee best be tending those stings of his afore they swelter." He turned about and began thumping his way back down the Road, his stick leading. Sam ached at the pained, defeated set of his father's shoulders, but feared to go after him. 

Frodo sighed, his breath ruffling Sam's hair. "I'm sorry you were between us for that, Sam." 

"I'd have been between ye even if I was away in Bywater," Sam mumbled, then flushed. 

"I suppose you're right; that's been coming for a while now." Frodo's hand shifted lightly on Sam's shoulder. "I won't let him--" he fell still. 

"You ain't got to worry none, sir." Sam breathed, unable to keep silent when Frodo hesitated. "He won't be sending me away again, for I'll not go." He dug one toe into the grass, too shy to turn and meet Mr. Frodo's eyes. 

Frodo's hand tightened on Sam's shoulder, and they stood there for a moment, unspeaking, something stronger than words passing between them. 

At last Frodo stirred. "Your Gaffer is right about the stings, at least. They need tending-- yours as much as mine. Let's go inside." His hand moved to the small of Sam's back, pressing lightly to turn him. 

"Yes, sir." Sam let himself be led across the threshold and into the smial.


	42. Ale and Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jolly and the Gaffer have a serious discussion.

Sam's Gaffer looks like a thundercloud when he walks into the Green Dragon, and I reckon it don't take me much guessing to figure out why. Not with half the town a-chatter about how Adley Meadowes and Sam went out to hive a swarm and Sam stripped Mr. Frodo down to his skin and all to get rid of the bees in his clothes, right after. The story says Sam done it without a by-your-leave, ordering him about just as bold as you please, right in front of Adley up top of the Hill. I wouldn't be sure whether I could credit that or not if I hadn't heard it from Adley's own mouth myself. He's a stout fellow, and don't go about making up tall tales just to hear the sound of his own voice. 

That was enough to send me in here for a swallow of ale, though I've been taking care not to drink too much since that night Sam and me parted ways at last. 

Gaffer puts his belly up to the bar and orders a tankard, glowering all about as the conversation sinks to a whisper. He catches plenty of eyes that way, his face all in a scowl under his wild shock of white hair. That makes the fellows turn away right fast, it does! There's not a few here who can remember when Gaffer Gamgee was younger, and he could take on any two hobbits in Hobbiton in a fight-- and win. 

I reckon I'm the only one as isn't half-scared of him, so when he turns about I pick up my foot and push out the chair opposite me at my table, inviting him over. He catches the movement out of his eye and carries his mug over, setting down with a thump and hooking his gnarled rosewood walking cane over the ladder-back of the chair. 

"Morning, Jolly." He eyes my ale. "It's a bit early for ale, don't you agree?" 

"Never too early for a drink to ease the throat." I smile at him without any mirth, and we tip our tankards at each other and each take a swallow. 

Gaffer looks about as he sets his ale down. His hands are shaking, and not with no palsy, neither-- he's in a taking, or my name ain't Cotton. "Jolly, I always figured my Sam would settle on you, or mayhap your sister, if he ever got his wits, but I reckon--" 

"He ain't," I murmur at him, interrupting to finish the sentence, and pick up my mug again. "He ain't never goin' to, and you know it." 

"That Mr. Frodo's got him all of a lather." Gaffer snorts, making the foam head flutter on his beer. "Young fool of a Brandybuck." He ain't so mad nor so drunk that he don't keep his voice low. 

"And part Took, too." I remind him and shake my head. "Them Brandybucks and Tooks, now-- they're queer folk, set in their ways and headstrong. You get more than you bargained for whenever you mingle that blood, by all accounts." 

"Fools." Gaffer's voice is harsh and bitter, like new wine. "Fools and wantons, with more money than sense." He don't ever talk about the gentlefolks this way; not that I've heard. He lifts his head and glowers at me. "You wouldn't credit the cheek I took this morning, and I ain't talking about that fool tale that's spread all over town, neither, bad as it is-- and that's bad enough nobody has to stretch the truth none in the telling, nohow!" 

I look at him, feeling my stomach shrivel up like a walnut. I don't reckon I want to hear aught more than I have already. The common room ain't got many people in it, just a few who'd come in for a bite before their day's work, and most of those have gone off, but there are still a few hobbits lingering here and there, no doubt with their ears wide open. 

"What sort of cheek?" I ask slowly. He fair looks like he's set to burst, the Gaffer does, and I'd not have him do himself a mischief for lack of someone to spill his heart to. 

"That lad, Himself now." He looks at me right sharp to see if I follow, and I nod. Gaffer's voice drops low as can be. "He put his hand on my own son right in front of me, and told me off that he'd be takin' care of my Sam from now on, like I was what he needed to be took care from." Gaffer stares into his beer, his mouth working. I can't tell if he's trying to shape words and he's just too mad to make them come, or if he's in the way of crying. Maybe he can't tell, neither. He picks up his mug and drains it dry, long hard swallows that work his old throat in a slow rhythm. 

"And my own Sam." His voice ain't none too steady when he's set the mug down and had a bit of air to follow it, "He stood there and never looked up nor said a word to me. Stood there quiet with that hand on him, as good as telling me he's no Gamgee no more, or the next thing to it!" 

I sit quiet and look into my own mug. I ain't got no taste left for it now. The louder hobbits trickle out, and the room calms down right quick. 

"I don't know what I'm to do," Gaffer admits to me, and I ain't never heard such a thing out of his throat before. Likely he ain't, neither-- he ain't known for dithering, not Hamfast Gamgee. 

"You've got to trust Sam," I tell him. "There ain't aught else you can do, seemingly. If you don't, you'll not have none of him left, for he ain't leaving Frodo Baggins's side, and that's a fact." There's a ring on the table where the foam from my beer ran down; I set the mug in it and then pick it up, putting it on the table to make another ring, interlocking with the first one. 

"But there ain't no way it'll work. No way at all, and ain't neither one of them as will see it," the Gaffer explodes, this time a little louder than is wise, and I lay a hand over his gnarled one, looking around to see if anybody's taking notice, but it looks like they ain't-- there's just our Rosie at the bar, and two Haywards in the far corner, their heads close together as they talk. "I ain't lookin' to say 'I told 'ee so, Sam,' but it's more likely than not, I'll warrant. Give it a day or a week or a year, and that Brandybuck lad will drop him like a hot tater--" 

"He won't," I interrupt, and the Gaffer blinks at me like an owl. "So if you're planning on it, you'd best change your plans, Gaffer." 

"But he--" 

"But nothing." This is summat Gaffer ought to know, and I ain't letting it pass. "Keep treating Sam like you are, and you won't have Sam, sure enough. For Mr. Frodo won't let him go, and Sam don't want to be let go, neither." 

Gaffer blinks at me again, hands white-knuckled on his mug. "It can't be--" 

"You say what you like, but you weren't there like I was," I tell him stubbornly, forcing down old pain. "You didn't see Himself when he first knew Sam and me were together-- I won't forget the look on his face till my dying day. You didn't fight him to keep him from leaping into that fire after Sam, neither." I touch my arm, where there are still fading marks from Frodo Baggins's sharp white teeth. "He'd have killed me to get free, if he had to, and gone right in knowing he'd be burnt up trying to get Sam out." That's another tale that didn't have to grow none in the telling, it were so big to start with. 

Gaffer is listening, his face pale and serious. Listening, not just letting me talk. 

"You didn't watch him day in and day out, taking care of Sam when he was burnt." I sigh. "You mark my words, this ain't no small thing to Frodo Baggins. Maybe it was once, afore you sent Sam off, but it ain't no more. Sam's his," I try to explain, faltering. "Sam told me so himself, and it's true. You can see it in the both of them: the knowing of it. But what's more, Mr. Frodo is Sam's, somehow. Maybe such a thing ain't never been done, maybe it ain't neither of their place, and maybe it won't be easy, but them two..." I shrug, all out of heat and words besides, seemingly. 

"Half the town has my Sam a-warming Mr. Frodo's bed, and not with no warming pan, neither," Gaffer whispers, looking lost and drawn with worry. "It ain't true, is it?" 

"That I can't tell." I feel a shiver run up along my spine, remembering the times my mind betrayed me, picturing the two of them together. "But if he ain't, well. It don't matter, for he will be soon enough." I think of Sam's gentle hands and his soft eyes and the way he's so terribly shy till you kindle him to flame, and then how strong he is, and how his eyes go golden-dark with desire. "I think if Mr. Frodo wanted to risk hurt to Sam, they'd have been abed together long ago, Gaffer. They've wanted each other for years, ever since Sam was old enough to know what he was wanting." 

"That last I know," he whispers, and there's tears in his eyes. "He come to his growing up young, our Sam did, but I seen his wanting Mr. Frodo coming all along, even before he did. I seen it ever since his mam died and they found Sam curled up in Himself's room. He weren't never my Sam after that, not no more." 

"He's come to a lot young," I nod. "And you're right; his mam dying didn't make him grow up no later, begging your pardon." 

"My Bell loved Sam best of all our little ones, and he loved her, too. She'd have known what to do, I'll warrant." A tear trickles out and Gaffer dashes it off rough-like with his wrist. 

"What would she have done?" 

"Made sweet cakes and took that Brandybuck boy under her wing, like as not, years back." 

I smile a little at the thought. I'll wager she would have, too-- it's just what Sam would have done in her place, I think. "Then can't you do something of the same?" 

Gaffer looks into his empty mug for a long time. He looks for so long Rosie comes over with a pitcher and fills it for him. Her eyes are on me, and they're red at the rims, and there's suspicious dark spots on her apron. She's been listening, which I can't grudge none, knowing how she'd set her cap after Sam just like I did. 

"Thank you, Miss Rosie." Gaffer gives her a sad nod. "I don't quite know how, like. I mean, I done that with you right enough, Jolly. You know that. You're still near as you can be to a Gamgee without carrying the name, and Sam wouldn't have no quarrel with me saying such. He's fretted himself plenty worrying over you, and that's a fact." Gaffer looks up at me, his eyes full of sorrow. 

I can believe Gaffer thinks of me like a son, if naught else. I'm more like him than his own Sam ever was, I reckon. Sam, now, he's got something queer about him that come from his mam, and summat else that come from Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo, and not just writing and tales, neither. Something that almost ain't natural, but yet is just as much Sam as breathing. 

"I reckon I understand you. It ain't like you could ask Himself over for elevenses and sit him down at the table and feed him cornmeal bread and butter." That weren't quite right; I thought he could, if he wanted. Mr. Frodo would come as he was asked, and he would try to talk so as to make the family feel at ease, and he would enjoy the simple fare, which showed up on his own table and Mr. Bilbo's often enough-- I knew that from the days I'd stayed in the smial myself. 

No, the problem was that if he done it, the Twofoots would think the Gaffer was putting on airs, and so would my own brothers, and the rest of Hobbiton would torment the family something fierce. Maybe Mr. Frodo wouldn't mind it, and to be sure Sam was able to stand up under a bit of teasing, but Gaffer, now. He was old and set in his ways, and comfortable being what he was. He wouldn't never be comfortable having no Baggins at his table, and Mr. Frodo would see that. 

"You don't have to make him a new son to you, I reckon," I stir the dregs of my beer, tilting my mug in a circle. "Just stop hating Himself because Sam's not what you expected him to be, and love Sam for what he is. The rest should come, in time." I hoped it would, for it would pain Sam deeply to be always at war with his old Gaffer. 

"Jolly Cotton, I reckon you missed your calling when you took up your own Dad's trade," Gaffer looks at me sharp-like. "I ain't quite sure what sort of trade you ought to have took up instead, but I know plain hobbit-sense when I hear it, and you've got more than your years warrant. Mayhap you ought to run for mayor when you come of age." 

I laugh at him, as sad as he is, and swallow my ale. 

"I'll pay you back with a bit of hobbit-sense of my own," Gaffer gets up, reaching for his stick. "You've sulked about long enough, lad. Find a lass or a lad as it pleases you, and settle down-- and that goes for your sister along with you." He glances at the bar, where Rosie ducks her head and goes about polishing the pewter cup in her hand. "Well, I'm off. And you'd best be too, if I know your father's mind." He settles his old cloth cap on his head. 

"Aye," I nod to him, and down the last swallow of ale, too bitter for such an early morning. I leave the mug with Rosie and head out into the sunlight. 

I've got work to be about, and there's no time for moping.


	43. Soda and Stings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Frodo tend each other's bee stings.

Frodo pushed open the door and stepped inside Bag End, Sam close behind him; after the bright morning the smial seemed dim. Mr. Merry was waiting in the parlour, and Sam could hear Mr. Bilbo puttering about in the kitchen. He felt a tickle of guilt; he ought to be about that himself, but Frodo's quick look when he stirred held him where he was. 

Mr. Merry stood up and came to greet them. "Pip's all right-- he got a sting, but he was more frightened than hurt, the little ass. I've put soda on his sting and put him to bed. He seemed to think that was a worse punishment than the bees!" Merry chuckled. 

"Soda on stings is an old Brandy Hall remedy," Frodo explained to Sam. "Did you have any left over?" 

"We made enough for both of you." Merry handed over the cup he held in his hand, and Sam saw it was half-full of watery white paste. "I'd best get back to Pippin or he won't stay settled. Were you badly stung?" 

"I'm fine," Frodo said absently. "But Sam may still have bees in his shirt." 

Sam grimaced; he did, at that-- he could feel a tickle of tiny feet crawling between his shoulder blades even as they spoke. "Fine's not the word I'd use," he dared. "You took more stings than I like to see, and that's a fact." 

"So did you," Frodo retorted firmly. "Merry, I'm taking him down to his room to get these clothes off him and check for bees." Frodo reached for Sam's sleeve and caught it, tugging him firmly down the hall. Sam blinked at the words-- his room?-- but followed obediently. Mr. Merry trotted along until they reached the door of Mr. Pippin's room, and after he turned aside Sam could hear him soothing his young cousin. 

Mr. Frodo swooped up a candle as they went, letting go Sam's sleeve to shield its flame from the draught, and they went into the room where Sam had stayed while he was burnt. His room. Sam felt his skin tingle, and it wasn't from the bee crawling around inside his shirt, neither. Mr. Frodo had kissed him here, once. Kissed him and sung to him-- the very room seemed alive with the memory of his voice, so strong Sam could hardly remember the pain he had endured here. 

"Out of that shirt, Sam." Frodo stepped to the mantel and touched the candle to the lamp that waited there, then went to close the door. 

Sam opened his buttons and peeled the linen shirt away carefully. The bee flew when he let it fall; Frodo watched it buzz towards the light and then go wandering about the small room. "We'll have to trap it and let it out." He hesitated. "Your breeches, too?" He made a question of it, and Sam obeyed him, embarrassed but not really wanting a searing sting on any of the places a bee might crawl to reach if it was trapped inside. He flushed with uncertain heat as he unlaced them; his smallclothes weren't so fine as Mr. Frodo's; worse, they'd worn thin from hard use and laundering. 

He let his breeches drop anyway, turning his back to Mr. Frodo, hearing him step forward. "You're hardly stung," Frodo sounded relieved. "On your back, anyway." 

"Mostly they got my hands," Sam agreed. "They didn't like it when I shut the sack." 

He fell still, warned by some presentiment, and was half-prepared when Frodo's fingertips drifted across his shoulders, along the path of the scar from his burns. 

"You did heal smoothly," Frodo murmured. "You'll be right as rain when the red fades." 

Sam shivered at the touch, which fell away softly after only a moment. Frodo stepped away and lit the second lamp, chasing the shadows into the corners and under the bed. Sam could hear Mr. Bilbo whistling down the hall. He stuck his head in the door and clucked. "Frodo lad, you two hurry and tend your hurts," Bilbo eyed them for a moment, a faint frown creasing his forehead. "I've nearly got breakfast on the table." He withdrew and shut the door again, pattering away. 

Frodo turned and retrieved the cup, which he'd left sitting on the bureau. He reached for Sam's hand, but Sam shook his head shyly. "We'd best see to you first, since my stings are on my hands and all, then you tend me when I can be still and let the medicine work." 

Frodo tilted his head, considering Sam's excuse to care for him first, but seemed convinced, so he handed Sam the cup and half-turned. 

Sam's heart rose fast, hammering in his throat as Frodo's hands went to his buttons. He'd just seen Frodo all but bare-- at the doing of his own hands, what's more-- but that was up on the Hill, and he'd been driven by need and worry. 

Here, warm lamplight bathed Frodo, turning his skin to rose and gold, and the tiny room felt like an island-- like Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin and Mr. Bilbo was miles away, and the whole Shire didn't even exist. Sam's breath hitched in his throat and Frodo glanced up quickly, hands at his belly. 

Their eyes locked for a long moment, but Mr. Frodo's hands never paused, and he let his shirt fall calmly before he broke the soft heat of the moment to look down. Sam watched him, noting the faint trembling of his master's fingers as Frodo pulled off his breeches and stepped out of them. His welts had darkened, swelling just a bit, just as the Gaffer had warned. 

"You've got enough of those you might feel a bit sick for a while," Sam murmured, biting his lip. Shyness warred briefly with his need to care for Frodo, and caretaking won-- he stepped forward, already putting a fingertip into the soda paste and stirring it up where the soda had caked in the bottom of the cup. He reached out to touch Frodo's pale chest, bending to dab white paste over an ugly sting that had swollen on Frodo's shell-pink skin, and found his master's nipple before his eyes. 

It was soft, rosy pink-- the same hue as the stings, and even as Sam blinked, it tightened, rising to a small taut pebble. 

Frodo stood perfectly still, and Sam tore his eyes away, reaching for a second sting and biting his lip fiercely, telling his body that he didn't have no business lusting after Mr. Frodo when he ought to be tending to his hurts instead. 

"Lift up your arms, sir." There were more stings on his ribs, where his arms had pressed the bees against his sides. Frodo obeyed, looking down at Sam so softly that Sam flushed and felt his body begin to stir. He moved to dab soda on each welt, resisting an urge to cover himself somehow, even if the only shield he could find was his own hands. 

"You're stung more than I was," Sam said. "Worse than I thought to start with. You didn't ought to come out without the right clothes on for the job." 

"I'll be fine." Frodo's white teeth touched his lower lip; he shifted a bit, letting Sam touch another puffy mark on his white flesh. "You needed help straight away." 

"We couldn't have got them bees down without you," Sam agreed. "But I'd rather lose a whole swarm than see you stung once, I reckon." 

Frodo drew a long, low breath, and Sam felt his own fingers start to tremble at the sound of it. He turned Frodo about, touching soda on to the few welts that dotted his narrow back. "I think if I'd been stung so bad, I might have shrieked worse than Mr. Pippin." Sam went to one knee, taking a deep breath. Mr. Frodo was stung between his thighs, too, where his breeches had rubbed them bees on his skin. "But you never made a sound...." He was shaking too bad to touch Mr. Frodo this way; that was for certain. "We should have gone to your room, sir, for you ought to be abed. They put my brother Hal to bed when he got into the yellow-jackets, and he hadn't as many stings as you." 

Frodo shrugged and shifted his feet, parting his slender thighs for Sam's hands. "I'm all right," he told Sam, impatience twining with fondness in his voice. "Yellow-jackets are worse than honey bees." 

"No, you ought to lie down," Sam insisted. "If you move about after I put this on you, you'll rub it all off before it can work." 

"I still have to tend you," Frodo protested, which didn't help Sam still his shaking hands. But Frodo stepped towards the bed anyway, and the sight of it made Sam quiver, and he could feel his body heating just to watch Mr. Frodo lie down, moving careful in spite of his brave words. 

Frodo arranged himself with his legs apart, and Sam watched him-- noting the grace of his muscles, the slim strength of him, and not missing the soft blush spreading across his skin, staining his cheeks with a lovely shade of pink. 

Sam stepped forward, knowing he was blushing too and feeling like his head might just burn right off his shoulders. He reached to touch Mr. Frodo's thigh, turning it, feeling Mr. Frodo's eyes on his trembling fingers. But there weren't no more shame, not really-- just wanting, wanting and tenderness and somewhere right down deep, a fierce ember of pride that he could tend his Mr. Frodo, here where Frodo had taken care of him for so long. 

Here, in a room Frodo called Sam's room, in a bed that must be, by extension, Sam's. 

Sam delicately touched his soda-wet fingertips to the ugly red welts dappling Frodo's pale flesh, leaving a smear of soothing medicine on each-- not giving in to the longing to lay his palm against Frodo without reason, or touch him somewhere there weren't stings. 

Frodo sighed and closed his eyes; Sam lifted his master's knee with one hand, looking for stings that might have hid back behind his thigh, pressed against the coverlet, and he tended them, then settled Frodo's leg again-- and found that he couldn't remove his hand, no matter how his mind told him that he must. He hesitated, fingers lingering against the tender crease of flesh behind Mr. Frodo's knee, as Frodo's eyes opened and fixed him with a loving gaze. 

Mr. Frodo sighed and shifted, a motion that lifted his hips, and Sam swallowed hard, savaging his lip between his teeth. His smallclothes were growing tighter than he liked to think of, and they wouldn't hide naught. He deliberately flexed the fingers of his stung hands, seeking for pain to discourage his flesh. The single honeybee from his shirt made a low, staggered hum as it sought a way out of the room, half-heard in the back of his mind. 

"Sam...." Frodo breathed, and shifted again-- beautiful, the grace of him, the way his fingers fell to lie splayed on his belly. Beautiful, the gentle symmetry of his body and the shadowed dell of his navel. Sam swallowed hard, wanting more than he'd ever wanted. 

What's more, he could have it. He could. He saw it very clearly, just looking into the banked blue flame of Frodo's gaze. Anything he wanted from Frodo was his for the taking-- stings or no. No matter they'd only shared one kiss ever between them, neither. 

"You're hurt, sir." His voice was thick with the wanting, thick and hoarse enough to make Frodo's eyes leap to bright flame. "And Mr. Bilbo's near done making breakfast already." His hand was shaking, trailing up Mr. Frodo's skin, dodging stings carefully-- on to the smooth, soft skin of his hips and belly, then to Mr. Frodo's chest, where it settled over his heart. 

"As are you," Frodo reminded him, and reached to take Sam's rough hand-- starting to swell from the stings now. "And I made a promise to your father." He reached downward, fingertips straining for the cup, catching its lip and drawing it up. He set it on his chest and dipped his fingers in, spreading soda paste lightly on to Sam's hand. "One I mean to keep." His eyes never released Sam's, and he hardly seemed to need them, his fingers were so deft, trailing over his palm and between his fingers, a wet butterfly touch that somehow drew out the heat and the pain and left Sam tingling all over. 

Sam swallowed hard, not caring about the stings, only caring about Frodo's hand and his bright blue eyes. Frodo lifted Sam's left hand off his chest and pressed his lips to it before he dipped into the paste again, touching it to the stings as gentle as he might have pressed kisses to Sam's lips. "My own Sam," he breathed, so low Sam nearly didn't hear it. 

"Ah, Mr. Frodo," Sam murmured. "That I am." He was moving, unable to stop himself, bending to one knee and leaning over till he found his master's willing mouth. 

Frodo made the softest little relieved sound, and his lips opened warm and soft and wet beneath Sam's kiss. Sam groaned deep in his throat, feeling himself kindle at the welcome. Stings and salves forgotten, he slid his hands around behind Mr. Frodo's neck, lifting him into the kiss, diving deep for more pure, sweet fire. Frodo's hands slid behind Sam's shoulders, clinging to him, and it was all Sam could do to keep his hands and mouth gentle, holding the need in check. 

After a moment Sam tore himself away, eyes fixed on Frodo's mouth-- wet and rosy from his kisses. He made himself stand up straight. There were smears of white, drying soda on Frodo's face and behind his neck, where it had rubbed off Sam's hands. 

"I've got to stop now," Sam breathed the words, hearing something near a growl whispering behind them. "For if I don't, I can't, begging your pardon, sir." He suddenly heard his own impertinence, and he blushed, his tongue feeling thick inside his mouth. 

"I don't want you to stop," Mr. Frodo answered, just as quiet, voice earnest. "But we must." 

"Frodo, breakfast is on the table!" Mr. Bilbo's voice, terribly near, dispelled the lingering haze and startled Sam backwards, nearly making him wring his hands, which were starting to swell in earnest. 

Frodo sat up carefully and rubbed at the telltale smears of white powder on his face and neck; luckily, they'd managed not to spill the cup. Quickly he took Sam's second hand and dabbed soda on to the reddest spots-- the efficient difference in his manner more than Sam could wrap his mind around, it was so far from the soft sensual caresses that still lingered in his mind. 

And a good thing, too; there wasn't even a tap at the door; Mr. Bilbo just walked straight in. "I was starting to wonder if the two of you were quite all right," he spoke dryly. "I see I shouldn't have worried." His eyes were sharp, though, keen and calculating, and they moved, taking in the whole tableau. The lines on his forehead deepened into a frown. Sam flushed crimson and tucked one foot over the other; it was easy enough to see he and Frodo were in a state, he reckoned. They'd not had time to hide much, nor dress, neither. 

"Samwise, fetch Frodo a tray of-- no, your hands are swollen twice their size. How many stings did you have?" Mr. Bilbo's momentary sharp look passed, fading into softer concern. "I'll set Pippin and Merry to it, then. If you ask me, the both of you ought to be abed. Sam, get Frodo into his room, if you can. I'll have to see if I can't swat that blasted bee," Bilbo scolded. "Merry, can you come and help me for a moment?" He leaned out in to the hall. 

Frodo took advantage of the moment to touch Sam's back with his fingertips, and they traded an instant's glance, firming their grasp on this new thing between them. Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, Sam fetched his master's clothes and helped him rise so he might find his own bed.


	44. An Unpleasant Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation with Lotho Sackville-Baggins turns sour.

I've gone to the Dragon with my Dad and my brothers and all ever since I was old enough to lift a mug of ale, and I don't think I might have cause to regret my choice when I set out. It's a warm spring night, with the frogs singing in the ditches. The earth smells sweet and dark, and there's a mist rising in the new-plowed fields. 

I've got a day's worth of ache and hard work across my shoulders. All I've thought of all day is how a mug of beer would go down well, but in spite of that it ain't long till I wish I'd never set out to Bywater for a sup. I start to wish I'd stayed home the minute I walk in, and that's a fact. 

"There's no tellin,' lads, but I'll warrant--" the talk falls low as I walk into the Dragon, which is enough on its own to tell me what's being talked about, I reckon. I pretend I don't hear it and raise a hand to Rosie at the bar. She looks pale, her face all pinched, which would tell me what was being noised about even if I hadn't heard for myself. 

I look about the room, trying to get a feel for the crowd. I shouldn't have come tonight, and that's clear. There's an uneasy mood hereabouts, and too many shifty eyes. Too many things have happened where those with eyes can see, and too many tongues have wagged spreading them about, with every tale running wild in the telling. 

There's been a rumbling and a speculation about Mr. Frodo's gardener lad all about Hobbiton and Bywater ever since last autumn, and I can see what's coming just as plain as the nose on my face. I've seen it coming a long time. That business with the bees, now, it weren't no more or no less than some of the other, but it just takes one more brick to break a cart, if the load's already that heavy. 

I sigh, wishing it didn't have to be so, but it does, I reckon. Folk don't like when someone gets above himself, not at all, and that's just what they think Sam's done with Mr. Frodo. Most of the time that just means nasty gossip, but get just the right crowd together and give them enough ale to set their tongues loose, and it just takes one spark to make trouble. It looks like we've got the right crowd here, and conditions are tinder-dry-- all we need is the spark. 

Talk or no, that spark ain't going to come from me. I always say there ain't no sense in starting a fight-- seems to me it's better to finish them. Still, I reckon this one will come to me in its own time, judging by the mutter, and I'm just the lad to finish it, too. 

"If this isn't a stroke of luck!" That's Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins's voice, which means things is worse than I'd counted on. He's just fool enough that if nobody gives him a spark, he'll make one of his own. "I reckon he can answer us right enough, lads!" He's got that Ted Sandyman with him, and a few other lads too, all younger than him, some of them ruffians, and some of them as ought to know better. The chuckle that follows his talk is ugly. 

"Rose, you run and fetch out the Shirriffs," I murmur into the ale she's just set in front of me, trying not to move my mouth. "If you can get them back here fast enough, there won't be no fight, I reckon." 

She acts like she don't hear me, but I know she'll dart off as soon as I turn around, so I do, looking at Mr. Lotho mild-like. He's left his table and come up to face me with that Ted in tow, and they're both smirking wide as coal-scuttles. 

"Wilcome Cotton." Mr. Lotho manages to make my name sound like something he'd scrape off his foot before he went indoors, but that don't bother me none. It's what else he might say as worries me. 

"Evening, Mr. Lotho." I lift my ale to him, peaceable-like. "It's an honour to have you in the company, sir." Those are the proper words, for all they taste like curdled milk in my mouth. I stretch comfortable-like, reminding him how strong I am-- that Mr. Lotho's not one for working, and I reckon he wouldn't make much of a show in a fight. Not even as much as Himself up the Hill would. He knows it, what's more-- he's a coward, and won't make no trouble unless he's got a lot of ruffians at his back. 

Which he does, as Ted's smirk reminds me. 

"We'd like your opinion to settle a gentlehobbit's wager." I can smell ale on Mr. Lotho's breath, which ain't unexpected. Here it comes, and Rosie ain't even had time to get to the Smallburrows's yet, much less roust Robin out! At least she won't be here to get hurt, and that's a comfort. 

"Seein' as I ain't no gentlehobbit, I don't know how I could help you." I turn about to the bar, but he puts his hand on my arm and pulls me around again sharp. 

That's stepping outside polite talk, and it's enough to make most of the lads in the common room fall still. If it were anybody but Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins with a hand on me, I know I'd have a number of lads getting up and heading our way, ready to fall in at my back... but nobody stirs, and it's his name as has them hiding their faces in their beer again. 

That makes Mr. Lotho feel like he's too big for his breeches, I reckon, for he smiles and sneers all at once. "Well, this question, see, you know all about." 

"Do I?" Friendly as the day is long, I answer him, and I put down my mug. I'm ready to thump his head, Baggins or no. "Then mayhap it ain't a gentlehobbit's question." 

That hits him where he lives, and he goes white in the face with anger. After a moment of groping for an answer, he finds one. "It's my business nonetheless; as the lawful heir to Bag End when Bilbo passes, I've a right to know." The sneer grows stronger. He looks over his shoulder and gathers his lads with a nod. "We're all curious, you see. Your friend Half-wit, now, he's been making quite a show up on the Hill with that Brandybuck lout who fancies himself my cousin--" 

That's more than enough for me to drop my friendly air, but I smile hard-like, and I wait for it. 

"--and seeing as how you've been mighty tight with Half-wit on your own account, we wondered if you'd tell us: is he taking his wages up the arse, or does he take out his pay in trade by tupping that fey fool of a Brandybuck himself?" His sneer stretches wide. 

There's a stir at the doorway, and I look over Mr. Lotho's shoulder-- and it's Sam standing there, with our Rosie fluttering anxious-like behind him. Mr. Lotho don't see; he thinks I'm counting his ruffians over his shoulder, I reckon. Sam steps up, his hands clutched into fists. 

"Well, Mr. Lotho," the words taste fine in my mouth, for I ain't alone in this fight no more. Sam's a-boiling; I ain't never seen such a look on his face. "I reckon you may as well ask him yourself, seeing as he's right behind you." 

That makes him blanch, sure enough, but he turns slow-like, trying to put on a regal air that don't go too well with the quaking of the yellow streak down his spine. 

Sam don't give him no time to repeat the question. "That would be 'neither,' sir." His hands are white-knuckled fists, but he's in control of himself. His voice is hard, but his words are polite. "Begging your pardon, but I think you've had a few too many mugs of the Dragon's good ale." 

"And you think you can order me home?" Mr. Lotho's voice goes right shrill. Ted bullies right up to his shoulder, reckoning on that Baggins name for protection, too much a fool to know he's about to be thrashed. 

"No, sir, but I reckon you'd just as soon walk as be carried." Sam shoulders out of his weskit careful like, and tosses it behind the bar. "I ain't got no thought for myself, you understand, but I won't hear you say such words against Mr. Frodo, and that's flat." 

"And I won't have them said about my friend," I back him up. "And there's lads in here who'd agree with me." I sweep a hard look around the inn and stir several sheepish nods. They'll fight, if it comes to that-- fight Ted and his lot, anyway. 

"He threatened me." Lotho's voice is even shriller; he don't take his eyes off Sam, backing up a step or two. "Ted, you won't let him get away with that!" 

Ted swallows hard and gathers the ruffians with a look. He already knows enough about the flat side of Sam Gamgee's fists for him not to be eager about taking Sam on alone, I reckon. They've tangled a time or two before, when we was all younger. Still, the memory of a drubbing ain't enough to turn him aside, not with a half-dozen ruffians at his back and Mr. Lotho at his shoulder. 

"Come on, lads!" He gives a shout and with that, they go for Sam, Ted in the lead. The second he lets fly a punch, I grab his arm to stop the blow. It drags me forward a foot or more, Ted swung that hard. 

He curses and flings an elbow in my direction, then someone grabs me and hauls me back. I hear a fist hit flesh, and Sam gives a grunt. Then someone grabs my arms from behind, pinning me tight. All of a sudden I've got my hands full with Ted, who lets fly a laugh at the same time he winds up another punch, which lands right on the point of my jaw. 

My head swims and I'm just recovering at about the time I see one of the Sandheaver twins from Tunnelly go flying in to have a go at Sam. I duck a second blow from Ted and see Sam turn and lay Ned Sandheaver flat on the floor with a haymaker. I reckon I can't let Sam show me up like that, so I decide it's time to see about getting loose. 

I drive my heels flat against the floor and crack my head back against the nose of whoever's got me. He gives a howl, and I kick out and catch Ted right in the stomach, doubling him over. I follow it up now that I'm free, catching Ted's ankle with mine and thumping him right onto the floor. 

Sam's fist does nicely for Raf Banks, who topples like a felled tree, and he dives a shoulder for another of the ruffians, catching him right in his belly and driving the breath out of him. With that Sam breaks free of the ruffians gathered around him and has a second to breathe, looking about for more fight, finding me, and starting forwards. 

I can see Mr. Lotho for just a split second; he's scuttling under a table off towards the back door, which ain't no surprise. There won't be hair nor hide of him to be seen, if Sam and me win-- which we look like doing, except Ned is up again, and this time he's got a chair in his hands, and he's sneaking up behind Sam's back. 

"Sam, look out!" Ted's scrambled up off his knees, and I ram my fist right between his eyes before he can do the same to me. The lad who had me around the ribs is one of them Bracegirdles, Lotho's poorer kin, and he's heavy but he's slow. His nose is bloody, though-- I reckon I've stirred the fury in him, and I'll have to lay him out proper if I want him to quit coming. 

I hear wood splintering, and Sam makes a sound halfway between a yelp and a snarl-- that chair, I reckon. Rosie screams, and I know Sam's been hit, so I have to turn my back on that Bracegirdle to see if he's all right. 

He's standing, but the chair ain't, and I reckon it got broke over his back. Now him and Ned each have a hold of one of the legs, and whoever gets it away from the other bids fair to crack the other one's skull, seemingly-- but I'll tell you straight: my money's on Sam. 

Something hits me in the back and whuffs all the air out of me-- that Bracegirdle lad, with a punch at the small of my back that leaves me knowing I'll piss blood for a day or two. I act like he's folded me up, and I fall back, but when I do I catch his legs and I twist, and he goes down hard. Ted's just barely made it back to his hands and knees; he's holding his face and there's blood on his hand, and I wish for a second I'd managed to do the same to that Mr. Lotho. 

Then wood splinters prickle all over me, and I dash them away-- and when I can look up again, it's Rosie who's holding the remains of a chair, and I won't have to worry none about that Bracegirdle no more, for he's down and don't look like he wants aught more of the fight any time soon. 

I jump up and go after Sam, who's got the chair leg and is holding off half a dozen of the ruffians now. At last there's more lads joining in, good lads who've decided to come in on mine and Sam's side, now that Mr. Lotho ain't nowhere to be found. Half the place is struggling and wrestling, and even as I glance about, a whole counter full of tables and crocks gets overturned with an awful shatter. 

There's no helping it, so I get in behind Sam and keep guard at his back; between my fists and that chair leg in his fist nobody seems too eager to come in after us, not now that Mr. Lotho's gone and Ted's nursing what looks to be a broken nose. 

That seems to be the end of things, but for a bit of bluster as the ruffians back off and go about tending to their hurts. Sam drops the piece of chair and winces, rolling his shoulder, which has to be where that chair landed and broke in the first place. 

"You didn't have to stand up for me, Jolly." He rubs his cheek, where at least one solid blow took him. "But I'm glad you did." 

"That's what friends do, Sam." Our eyes lock, and just that easy, the pain and the resentment that set us apart is shredding and fading inside me, and I know we're friends again, no matter what-- just like we always was, if I hadn't let foolish hurt and pride get in my way. 

"There's them ruffians that set about me and my lads!" Mr. Lotho's shrill voice breaks the momentary calm, and wouldn't you know he's found the Shirriffs and brought them back? Our word won't go far against his, and that's a fact. I reckon they'll cart us off to Michel Delving and keep us overnight, and have Mayor Whitfoot decide what to do with us in the morning. I wince a bit. This will kill my old Dad, and Mam too, not to speak of Sam's gaffer. 

"They didn't!" Rosie's voice is even shriller than Mr. Lotho's. "It was Ted Sandyman as threw the first punch, and it wasn't till after him and Mr. Lotho gave up on provoking Jolly to hit first, for Jolly wouldn't!" 

The Shirriffs look at one another, and I reckon they figure she's got the right of it, but then, that's Mr. Sackville-Baggins glaring at them, and there ain't none of us in here whose word weighs more than his, not even if we all said the same thing at once. 

"Go up the Hill and fetch back Mr. Frodo!" Rosie's that determined. "You go on, Robin Smallburrow!" 

Sam and I both wince, but Robin's shaking his head. "That won't do any good, Rosie. He didn't see what happened any more than I did." 

Mr. Lotho stands there looking smug, his arms folded, not paying no mind to his friends bleeding on the floor. His sneering looks are all for me and Sam; I reckon he figures he's won the fight and made his point, both. It won't be no easier for Sam and Mr. Frodo now, and that's a fact. I hate to think what Mr. Bilbo will make of all this, and as for the Gaffer, well, that don't bear thinking. 

"Well," Robin sighs. "We'd best take you off to the Mayor's Office as soon as I make sure there ain't nobody who's too bad hurt. I reckon you won't be in too much trouble, not from the Mayor anyhow, seeing as how Mr. Lotho weren't touched." Robin looks rueful. He's smart enough to know the Gaffer will raise all the trouble Sam can stand, and probably my Dad will do the same for me, too. 

Well, there's nothing for it but to face up to what we've done. I know for a fact Sam would gladly suffer his Dad's sharp tongue for a year rather than have Mr. Frodo know what was said here tonight-- though I don't reckon that's something as can be hid even if we try. 

Robin goes to pick up the Bracegirdle lad Rosie cracked with the chair-- he still ain't up, and that's worrisome, but I'm relieved to see him start stirring. While the Shirriff's busy checking those as is hurt and taking stories from those as ain't, Mr. Lotho walks forward, kicking idly through shattered dishes and avoiding overturned tables for all the world like he's tallying up the damage, except he looks down at Sam as he passes us by. His lips don't hardly move, and I reckon I'm the only one as hears what he's got to say: 

"Does he squeal when you put it to him?" There's both lust and loathing in the look he flashes towards Sam. "You like it that way, don't you." 

Sam lunges, snarling, and I barely catch him in time, straining with all my might to hold him back. Mr. Lotho steps away quick and sharp, a little cruel smile playing on his mouth for just a moment before he puts on his dramatic face and pretends like he's took a fright. 

"Look at him; he's like a rabid animal!" Mr. Lotho draws himself up with distaste, making an exaggerated shudder as he steps away-- with such a dainty air about him and such a little simper that he looks almost like his mother, and would look just like her if he had on an umbrella and a skirt, to my way of thinking. 

"Sam, you know better than that." Robin looks sick, but he takes out some leather straps and ties up Sam's hands, knotting them right up tight behind his back. Sam don't fight him none, his eyes hard on Mr. Lotho with a stare so cold and level Mr. Lotho swallows hard and don't say no more-- I reckon he's afraid Sam could thrash him, bound or no. 

I look around for our Rosie, but she ain't nowhere to be seen, and I reckon she's gone after help-- Gaffer or our Dad or Mr. Frodo himself, I don't know which. 

I find out soon enough. We ain't hardly got to the town hall at Michel Delving before I hear a clatter of hooves-- it's Mr. Frodo on a pony, with Rosie behind him, hanging on tight with her skirts rucked all the way up to her thighs. I give her a frown for not acting proper, but she snubs me as cool as you please and jumps off the pony as soon as it stops, so Mr. Frodo can climb down too. 

He's carrying a real glassed-in lantern and his look is calm, though his quick side-trip to check Sam's face and his frown at the leather on Sam's wrists lets me know he's not near so easy in his mind as all that. 

Sam bends his head to study his toes, a perfect picture of wretched shame. 

"Why did you bind him?" Mr. Frodo directs that at Robin, cool and quick. 

"He took a pass at Mr. Lotho, sir, after I stopped the fight," Robin touches his cap. "I thought it best to make sure he couldn't do no damage if he couldn't keep his temper." 

"Is this the sort of ruffian you keep in your hire, cousin?" Mr. Lotho comes on bold. "In Hardbottle, we'd have him flogged and set him out without a job!" 

"Would you?" On the surface, Mr. Frodo is all polite interest. "Perhaps that is why your mother can't keep the roses blooming in her garden." 

Mr. Lotho's mouth works at that, and he scowls at Sam-- it's true the Sackville-Bagginses can't keep no help. Not that they flog the servants regular; that's all boast and nonsense. But I've heard a tale or two saying they don't pay 'em regular, neither. 

Mr. Frodo continues, icy-calm. "Perhaps you should tell me what happened at the Dragon." 

"Those two ruffians picked a fight with my lads--" 

"That's very interesting." Mr. Frodo interrupts him, without raising his voice none. "Miss Cotton tells a different tale, and speaks of a dozen witnesses who would confirm it." 

"And you'd listen to a barmaid's tale over the word of your own family." Mr. Lotho don't quite manage to make it a question. I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut, recalling all his talk about 'that Brandybuck lad' who 'fancies himself' a cousin, but I keep my mouth shut, and for a wonder, so does Sam. 

"I am assured, in fact, that the fight started over the matter of a slur you made against myself and my gardener." Mr. Frodo never falters. "Perhaps if you have questions involving my business affairs, you would be wise to consult me personally rather than opening the matter to public speculation in the common room of a tavern." 

"You don't deny it, then," Mr. Lotho sneers, and he's so proud of himself for scoring a shot that he don't even see Robin's eyes narrow in thought. Sam just stands with his head down, staring at Mr. Frodo worried-like out of the corner of his eye. 

"I was not under the impression that I had an obligation either to confirm or deny any of my private business to you." Mr. Frodo is done dealing with Mr. Lotho, and he makes that right plain, turning to Robin. 

"Release Sam to me, and Jolly, too. They won't make any more trouble tonight, and I will ensure they return here tomorrow to speak with the Mayor regarding their punishment." His voice is clipped and precise. "Untie those leathers at once." 

Robin hurries to do it, not meeting Mr. Lotho's eye. 

"Mr. Frodo--" Sam lifts his head at last when he's unbound, wringing his hands, misery and shame fair making him cringe. 

Mr. Frodo interrupts him with a single shake of his head. "That's enough, Sam." Gentle, his voice is, but still calm. 

Mr. Lotho makes a chuff of annoyance. "I'll have you know I'm not satisfied, cousin!" 

"I couldn't possibly care less." Before, Mr. Frodo's tone to Mr. Lotho could have put a skim of ice over a puddle; this time it would have frozen the Brandywine right through. "You came here looking for trouble, and you found it. Take your ruffians back to Hardbottle with you, and see to it they don't darken the doors of the Green Dragon again." 

Mr. Lotho looks to Robin, who don't say naught to contradict Mr. Frodo, and that's enough. Mr. Lotho stumps off into the night muttering to himself, and I for one am right glad to see him go. 

Robin hangs his keys back on his belt, and he sighs a bit. "Well, you two lads come back tomorrow morning, right sharp at nine. Mayor Whitfoot will want a word with you, sure enough." 

"I'll be here," I tell him, and Sam does too. 

"And what's more, I'm payin' my share of the damages," Sam says, stout and stubborn, with a glance at Mr. Frodo out of the tail of his eye. 

Mr. Frodo just stands still, composed, letting his silence do for agreement. 

"I am too," I say right stout, but it ain't so easy for me, seeing as how I'm even younger than Sam and don't earn no proper wage. I reckon my Dad will have to pay, and he'll work it out of my hide. Rosie's eyes go wide, and I reckon she's thinking the same. 

Mr. Frodo takes a deep breath and shakes his head with frustration. "Have it the way you will." He looks towards Sam, and his eyes seem to snag there, reluctant to pull away. Sam drops his gaze to study his toes. After an awkward pause Robin finally touches his cap one last time and heads off back towards Bywater. 

"Jolly, you should probably walk Rosie home," Mr. Frodo says, absent-like. "I'll call for you at dawn tomorrow." 

I nod and touch my own cap. "Come on, Rosie. You've a job of cleaning to do at the inn, and that's a fact. I reckon I wouldn't be a good brother if I didn't help to clear up my own mess." As we start off towards Bywater, I glance over my shoulder to where Mr. Frodo and Sam are still standing, plain as day to see within the soft circle of lantern-light. 

They don't touch each other, but Mr. Frodo stands still, patiently looking at Sam, till Sam lifts his head ever-so-slow and looks back. Even from twenty ells down the Road, I can see how the three-foot gap between them is as wide as a mile, and I can see from the way they're standing how much it hurts them both to stay on either end of it rather than meeting in the middle. 

Mr. Frodo reaches for the reins of the pony as we pass beyond the corner of the town hall, and they vanish from my sight. In another minute I can hear the pony's hooves thumping softly behind me and Rosie as he and Sam mount up to ride along in our wake. When they catch us up, Mr. Frodo has Sam before him in the saddle, and they're pressed tight together with Mr. Frodo's cheek against Sam's and his arm around Sam's middle. They've snuffed the lantern so nobody can see who they are or how they're sitting unless they come right up close. 

The mist is gathering in about the town, but it catches the light of the waxing moon, spreading it about, and the glow is just bright enough that I can see Sam's eyes are closed, and his hands are tight on the pommel-- tight and trembling, if I don't miss my guess. 

I know Sam well enough to read the tension and the nervousness and the longing written deep into every line of him, and that's enough for me to be sure they haven't lain together yet, for all they're suffering like they have. They might as well just go ahead and have the sweet along with the bitter, if you ask me-- which nobody is nohow. 

"Good evening, Jolly. Thank you. And thank you, Rosie." Mr. Frodo's voice is firm; his one free hand tugs lightly on the reins to slow the pony, and the other don't let go of Sam. "You let me know if there's any more trouble." 

"Yes, sir," we chorus, and they ride on, vanishing away into the deep grey night. 

Rosie's hand reaches for mine, hesitant and cold and shaking, and we watch as they ride off. I reckon if there's a tear on her cheek, then there's one on mine as well, but we don't say naught about it. We just walk back to the Dragon to clean up before heading home.


	45. A Short Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam ride home from Michel Delving.

Mr. Frodo tips my chin up, lifting the lantern, and checks my face to see how bad I'm hurt. It's not bad-- I've a sore spot on my chin, and probably an ugly mouse coming up on my jaw, but they didn't hit my eyes or my mouth nowhere. He clucks his tongue and lowers the lantern, then pulls the trim bay pony over close and nods for me to climb up in the saddle, so I do, not wanting to give him no more reason to be disappointed in me tonight. He busies himself by lifting the lantern and blowing it out. For a minute there's pure pitch dark, but then my eyes start to get used to it and I can make out the glow of the Moon. 

"Sit forward, Sam." Mr. Frodo climbs up in to the creaking leather saddle behind me and settles his feet in the stirrups-- I reckon I must have figured he'd be doing that, because I haven't already found them with my own. I take a deep breath, not sure what that says about my thinking, nohow. 

He settles himself-- it's a tight fit, the two of us in this saddle, but we manage it-- and wraps his arm around me, then finds the reins and clucks to the pony. I cling to the pommel, a little nervous, for I'm not used to riding. Usually I walk alongside a team of oxen in a field, or sometimes I drive a cart. 

It's been a hard night and an ugly one, but right now I could almost forget what's been and what's yet to come. Sitting before Mr. Frodo in the saddle, feeling his warm body pressed tight against my back and feeling his arm snug around my waist, I can't regret naught. Not even the deep bruised ache in my shoulder that he don't know about, from where the chair hit me. I'll be feeling that one for a week or two, I guess. 

We catch up Jolly and Rosie before I get used to sitting so close to Mr. Frodo; I just know what Jolly must be thinking, and never mind if he means it more kindly than Mr. Lotho did. It's something as hurts Jolly a deal more than it'd ever hurt Mr. Lotho, and that's a fact, so I don't hardly have the courage to meet his eyes. 

Mr. Frodo slows the pony while I'm blushing. "Good evening, Jolly. Thank you. And thank you, Rosie." They look up at us, their faces pale and vague in the dim of the night. Mr. Frodo sounds calm as a pond on a still day, and his arm is warm around me, so warm I shut my eyes in spite of myself and just feel it resting there. "You let me know if there's any more trouble." 

"Yes, sir," they say, and sound right subdued, too. Mr. Frodo nods to them and touches the pony with his heels, and we outpace them right away, moving along like a little island in a sea of floating mist. 

I sigh when they've vanished into the night behind us; now I'm free to enjoy being pressed up against Mr. Frodo again-- or I would be, if it weren't for the troubles that have brought us here. I can just hear his mind working, and now that we're alone, I know the questions won't be long in coming. 

"Rosie wouldn't tell me exactly what Lotho said." Mr. Frodo's voice is right at my ear, low and sober, just like I reckoned it would be. "Will you?" 

That makes me tense up, and I ain't got no way to hide, so he feels it. "Mr. Frodo, he was that drunk, he didn't know what he was sayin'," I stall, feeling a bit lame. 

"He wasn't. He was walking straight and steady." It's patient, Mr. Frodo's voice, and a little sad. "I know it was about you and me, Sam, and what we might be to each other. Will you leave me to guess at the rest, or hear it from him?" 

I sigh, already beaten. The words are heavy as lead on my tongue. "He asked how you paid me, and made sure to say he reckoned it was in a bed, sir." 

"I thought as much." His warm arm tightens. "Was that all?" 

I don't want to tell him no more, especially not what Mr. Lotho said about what might go on if I was lying with Mr. Frodo in bed, if you follow. My cheeks heat up at the very thought of what he last said-- that's the very worst, for I've had that same thought myself, and more than once. I've secretly wanted to have Mr. Frodo lying under me, taking all I have to offer him, and I've burned with a desire to hear any little cries he might make, too. My face feels like it's glowing red, and I'm wretched with shame. I hunch over, not meaning to, curling around the bitterness of the feeling. 

"Sam." Mr. Frodo sounds like his heart might break. "What did he say?" 

I shake my head, savage, but the words are tumbling out before I can stop them. "They ain't dirty or mean, the things I want to do with you, sir, for all he'd make them seem so! And I wouldn't do them for no money, neither!" I clap my hand over my mouth to stop the torrent, and if I thought I felt shame before, it's nothing compared to now: I've near come right out and said I want my own master under me. 

"Of course they aren't. And you wouldn't. Nor would I ask such a thing of you." Mr. Frodo hesitates for a long moment; mayhap he's thinking. I wait, knowing it ain't over, and I'm right. "I must know," Mr. Frodo speaks, near as quiet as the mist brushing my face. "We'll have to testify to the Mayor in the morning. What grounds did you have to start this fight?" 

"I didn't start no fight, and neither did Jolly. We talked right polite till Mr. Lotho told Ted and them ruffians to set to. And what Mr. Lotho said, it weren't before the fight, not all of it. Some come after." I shake my head, frustrated and miserable. "I weren't there for the start of it; you'll have to have that from Jolly. But when I come to the door, Jolly was acting as proper as you please, but that Mr. Lotho was standing right afore him, and asking him if I took my wages from you up the arse, or... or if I turned the tables about, if you follow." 

My cheeks flame with a shame the likes I've never felt before; the words taste like wormwood on my tongue. "I told him he'd had a bit too much to drink, and I told him it weren't neither thing he'd said, but he wouldn't back off none, in my face with his filthy talk and all. I tried to get him to go off home and have a sleep, but he weren't for going. I didn't want no fight, and that's a fact!" I wish I could see his face and read what he thinks of me in his eyes, but then again, I'm right glad I don't have to. He just waits, like he knows that's not all, so I have to finish. 

"He kept coming at it. Then when Jolly said he wouldn't hear no such talk about a friend, Mr. Lotho said we'd threatened him, and called Ted in to answer. Ted waded in with fists a-flying, and there weren't nothing for it but to fight or take a beating. Then when it was done and Mr. Lotho come back-- he hadn't no stomach for the fight, for all he started it himself-- then," I gulp, but he'll have it all, and I know it. "He come right close to me, he did, and said that he reckoned you'd squeal when I..." I have to rub my face with my sleeve; there's tears thick in my throat, and I can't finish. "And he let on I'd like it, hurting you." There, that's the lot, and I don't feel no better for having it out, neither. 

I can feel Mr. Frodo breathing hard against my back, and I struggle with the tears, not knowing what to expect when he speaks again. 

"Lotho is a fool, and a cruel one at that." His voice is thick with rage and pain. "I've more than half a mind to turn back and find him on the Road!" He's so upset he actually pulls rein, bringing the pony up sharp. 

"Not with all them ruffians he's got," I plead. "Not just us two-- and not at all, begging your pardon, not even with a dozen good stout lads. My Gaffer's already going to peel my hide and use it for glove leather." 

"Of course." His voice is still harsh, and for a frightened moment I ain't altogether sure it's only Mr. Lotho he's so angry with-- I worry it might be me. But then he calms, still speaking. "And there's Bilbo to think of, as well. He won't be angry about the fight, I think-- he'll only wish one of you had managed to give Lotho the thrashing he deserves. But...." he trails off. "There are other things for us to consider," he finally says, and he sounds regretful. 

My heart pounds hard; he's with me, and mayhap in more ways than just sharing the troubles of this night. Just hearing the tone in his voice, I've got no doubt he'll stand at my side against my Gaffer and Mr. Bilbo and Mayor Whitfoot and all comers, no questions asked. 

"There's been enough trouble," I say, my voice small. "I don't want to make it no worse for-- for us," I say it right bold, and his arm tightens. The pony stops, and he's very still for a long moment, breathing soft against my ear. 

"Us." It's the faintest breath, and and my head spins with dizzy, delightful terror. "Do you still want 'us' to be, Sam? Knowing what it will cost? Tonight was only a taste, I am afraid. I am very much older than you, and you haven't yet come of age. Your family has served the Bagginses for a century or more. There will be more gossip, and hard words to bear-- words that may make Lotho's innuendo seem pleasant by comparison. Most of the Shire will not understand." He sounds breathless, like he's afraid I'll say him no. 

I don't know what he means, not proper-like: does he mean us the way we are now, or more than that? It don't matter nohow; there's no chance I wouldn't want whatever I can have of him. "I couldn't stop wanting to stay with you if the sky fell for it," I answer him quickly, hoarse and honest. "It's worth any amount of trouble." But that don't sound right, and I try again. "You are, I mean, sir." My head is dizzy with daring, soaring with the wonderful freedom of saying such things. I've held them to myself for so terribly long, without hardly daring to hope, even after I knew I might. 

"If it were anyone but you saying these things, I would doubt he knew his mind," Frodo breathes. "You're still so very young, Sam." 

"Not that much younger than you," I answer him right stout. "You're not of age yet either, begging your pardon, sir." So bold those words feel in my mouth, bold and terrifying and true. 

The pony tosses its head, snorting-- it wants to get back to its warm, dry stall and a manger of oats, I'll warrant, but Mr. Frodo holds it still in the Road. Whispers of mist fly past us on the light breeze, catching the wan light of the narrow moon like thousands of tiny silver fireflies rising into the night. 

"Twelve years," he whispers. "You're twelve years younger...." His voice trails off, then strengthens again. "How many hundred years of tradition do you suppose we have to reckon with? How many rules shattered?" 

I swallow hard, for I don't know. That twelve years ain't naught. It's the other that's the rub: the rules that say Baggins blood has naught to do with the likes of a Gamgee. How many of his relations might treat me like Mr. Lotho just did? Or worse, what might Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin say if I went to his bed, and they learned of it? 

Mr. Frodo sighs like there's a burden of weight on his shoulders, then he seems to make up his mind. 

Moving slow and deliberate, he guides the pony off the Road, all the way to the gnarled roots of a tall oak. He winds the reins about the saddle horn, the heel of his palm brushing me once, accidental-like, in a way that makes me gasp for a quick breath of the cool, damp air. When he's satisfied that the pony ain't going to stray, he slides his hand up my arm, making me tremble, and twines his fingers into my hair, turning my head. I quiver, wanting to melt into him, needing to close him inside the circle of my arms. 

His other hand comes up, loosing my waist to cradle my face in its palm, and he half-turns me, looking into my eyes for a moment. I see him like I never have before, meeting his gaze with no more secrets nor misunderstanding between us. He's as beautiful and as beloved and as precious as he's always been to me: from the moment I first ran across him in the gardens under the Road to Bag End to the moment he hauled me out of that fire, to the moment he come for me and Jolly just now at Michel Delving, and all the times in between. He's beautiful and uncertain and somehow no bigger than me in this moment, for all of his money and his name-- just a hobbit, lonely and aching. 

I tremble, quivering with hope as his dark eyes drop to my mouth. "Sam?" he breathes, and it's a question. 

"Frodo." I put everything I have into the word, yearning and love and hope and fear: my answer, and my whole heart, even as I'm shivering with the giddy terror of making free with his right name. 

Without no more fuss, he draws my mouth to his, soft and sure. 

His mouth is gentle, almost shy, and it tastes of pipe-weed and cinnamon. I hear myself moan and I nudge my chin up and open to him. He makes a low sound, surprise and pleasure, and his tongue slips inside my mouth for the first time. 

I sway, aching to hold him, but then there's nothing but the sweet glide of his tongue, and the rush of heat through me-- so hot I don't even feel the mist, just him, his hands tight on my face and his breath on my cheek. He means to keep it light and sweet, I can tell by how delicate and shy he moves, but it's getting away from us, just this fast. My tongue meets his and swirls around it, and I suck his lip into my mouth, making him moan. 

He's kindling for me, like a flame in good tinder-- I can feel him stirring against my backside, firming. Heart pounding, I press myself back against him, squirming a little, giving him a rhythm, and he makes a choked cry without ever letting go my mouth, and suddenly it's hotter and wetter as he tries to climb right inside me, and I kiss him back just as hard, sucking at his tongue. 

Through the roaring of want in my head, I feel his hands go sliding down my chest, palms open. If I could reach to hold him, I'd tilt his head, press this kiss even deeper, drink his breath and give him my own, I would. I press back harder, groaning, quivering as his hand trails down... down.... 

And then we hear voices and we pull back and freeze, mouths just a little ways apart. Mr. Frodo looks over his shoulder to the Road, where Jolly and Rosie have caught us up, we've dawdled so long. 

The mist is thick and the tree shades out the moonlight; is it dark enough? I hold my breath and hope the pony won't whicker, waiting as they walk closer, and I can see them, but we're hidden in shadow, and maybe they won't look aside. Mr. Frodo's hand is at my belly; his thumb wanders between two of my shirt buttons, and he strokes the little bit of my skin he can reach. 

It's awkward holding this twisted-up pose while I'm not kissing him, so stealthily I straighten forward, and he sets his chin on my good shoulder, watching as they walk past, talking low. 

"I hope Dad don't thrash me, for all I deserve it." Jolly sounds glum. 

"You showed that Mr. Lotho a bit of cheek, that's certain." Rosie clicks her tongue. "You and Sam put him in his place, you did!" 

"That we didn't." Jolly's voice is short. "We did just what he wanted, and he'll have our hides, come morning." 

"Mr. Frodo won't let that happen. Not to Sam." Rosie's voice is wry. "And not to you neither, since the two of you was in it together." 

I squirm a little, embarrassed, only to feel Mr. Frodo's cheek, soft as a rose petal, press soothing against mine. 

"Mayhap he won't, and that's a mercy." Jolly sighs. "But I'll warrant Dad will have my hide if Mr. Lotho don't, and that's a fact." 

As luck would have it, Rosie picks this very minute to stop short and turn to Jolly. "Jolly, what that Mr. Lotho said. Was any of it... true?" Her voice is strained. 

"Not much of it, I daresay, and the worst of it won't ever be. But Sam.... he's for Mr. Frodo, and you know it." Jolly's voice is heavy. 

"That Mr. Frodo can't ever give him a smial full of children!" Her voice sharpens. I squirm; we ought not to listen in secret to such private things. Mr. Frodo stills me, his hand gentle but heavy on my arm. 

"Maybe that ain't what he wants." Jolly answers her just as sharp. "I'm telling you now, sister, set your eyes somewhere else. I won't see you grieve for him the way I have." 

"Then you'd best shut your eyes," she snaps. "For that's naught you can help, Jolly Cotton!" 

I shut my own eyes, all of a misery. It's a wonder Farmer Cotton and his wife will even give me a nod and a smile at the market, what with me grieving both the twins like this. 

"It ain't no bargain Sam's got, if you're thinking on why he's chosen as he has." Jolly shakes his head and draws her under his arm. "If you're thinking tonight was the last fight he'll have on that account, you've got a deal more thinking to do, and no mistake! And I ain't just talking about the likes of Mr. Lotho, neither-- that is, if he doesn't put an end to things tomorrow for good and all. Mr. Bilbo's likely to let us all hang, and not just Sam, if he takes a mind." 

Mr. Frodo stiffens up just like a stone at all that, and his arm falls away from my waist. 

Jolly nudges Rosie with his arm and the two of them pad on in silence, vanishing into the mist. 

"We'll let them walk for a while before we go on, so they won't know they passed us," Mr. Frodo breathes when they've gone-- but his voice is remote, as distant as the stars in the sky. 

"If Jolly don't think to look for the pony's tracks, and miss them," I answer him, but he hears the false cheer in my voice and understands it. We sit together quietly for a few moments, and I can near hear him thinking. 

"Lotho won't lay a finger on either of you, or on Rosie." Mr. Frodo says at last, and it's a vow. "I'll settle for him, with Bilbo's support or without. I'd take care of Jolly in this if you'd never showed your face in the Dragon." 

"I know that," I answer, soft-like. "And Jolly would too, if he could see it straight. Mr. Bilbo, now, he always takes care of its own, and you ain't no different." 

"Yes." Mr. Frodo pauses; I can feel his breath warm on my throat, and it fair prickles my skin. "They don't trust me as they might. They've never forgiven me for taking you. Perhaps they never will." 

I tremble, hearing it put so calm. "You couldn't take away what was already yours," I tell him, and hear my voice shake. 

His arm slides tight around me, and his face tucks against my neck for a long moment. 

"Sam," he speaks at last, his breath like a caress. His lips touch my ear, brushing along its edge with a delightful soft tickle of breath that makes me sigh. "I don't know that I deserve you." He nudges the pony forward, keeping it at a slow walk as we lurch back up on to the Road and head for Hobbiton. 

"Oh, but Mr. Frodo...." I don't know how to answer that, so I just let the words trail off, and I blush and duck my head, brushing my forehead against his cheek. He presses a kiss into my hair. 

By now it's awfully late. We ride quiet-like through Hobbiton and Bywater, where the only light is at the inn, and Jolly and Rosie's quiet voices can be heard inside. As we start to climb the Hill we rise out of the mist, and we find that the dew has settled even up here, heavy on every leaf and blade of grass. We don't meet a soul out on the Road except for a red fox trotting quietly across the way and vanishing into a silver-laced field. 

Mr. Frodo is quiet; his hands guide the pony with expert, gentle pressure on the reins. There's a new peace between us, and a warmth that don't ask for no words. The memory of what's passed between us this night gives me the courage to hold my head up high when he stops the pony and lets me scramble off in front of Number Three, where a light yet burns in the window-- my old Gaffer, likely, sitting up for news of me. 

"Shall I come in with you?" 

"No need." I reach out and touch his calf, gentle-like, just with my fingertips. "Thank you, sir." 

"Don't mention it, Sam." His voice is warm and wistful, but there's that light shining through the window, and there's a sound of movement inside the hole. It wouldn't be safe to touch nor kiss again, and we both know that, no matter how much we ache for it to be different. 

"Do you need me to come up and tend that pony?" I'll do it, but I'd best see to the Gaffer first. 

"No." He shakes his head firmly. "I'll stable him out in the shed myself. I'll meet you on the Road just after dawn." 

"I'll be waiting," I say, lingering at his side in spite of myself. 

He smiles down at me, face touched with the barest hint of warm gold where it catches the soft lamplight. After a moment he nudges his heels against the pony, and I go inside to face my Gaffer.


	46. Legalities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jolly and Sam face the music.

The next day Sam rose before the cock crowed and made his quiet way out of his bed and in to the kitchen with the first soft glow of dawn. The Gaffer was already up, poking in the ashes of the fire, and he gave Sam a look that mingled lingering sleep and just a hint of surliness. The scent of ash rose sharp and thick in the air, tickling Sam's nostrils. 

"'Ee best have a bite before Himself fetches 'ee out." The Gaffer straightened his creaky knees slowly. "There's bread and jam on the table, and butter in the pantry." He avoided Sam's eyes, dusting his weskit with hard slaps of his callused, flat hands. "Don't fret too hard, lad." The words sounded like they near strangled him, but they made it out. "I'll warrant Mr. Bilbo won't find aught amiss with 'ee and Jolly fighting on Mr. Frodo's behalf, though he mightn't like the cause for it none too well. If 'ee had to fight, 'ee couldn't have chose nobody he'd be more like to back 'ee against, I'll warrant." 

"I reckon that's so," Sam exhaled slowly. "Dad, I'm sorry nonetheless; I wouldn't shame you for naught, but that's just what I've done." 

The Gaffer hesitated, half through the door into the tiny parlour. "Well, lad, 'ee have to stand and fight for what 'ee want and what 'ee believe, I reckon. 'Ee wouldn't be no son of mine if 'ee didn't, and that's flat." He drew a deep breath and faced Sam straight on. 

"I still remember goin' down halfway to Frogmorton to fetch your mother and have her walk out with me. Her da, now, he didn't care a whit for the likes o'me courtin' his youngest; she were above me, the way he figured it, and not far wrong, neither. He was a carter, was Ranson Goodchild, and had a tidy bit of brass put back, but he had six girls went before Bell, and between the lot of them, they cleaned the country lookin' for suitors." Sam's Gaffer looked up towards the ceiling as though it held the very memory he had fixed in his mind's eye. 

"There weren't an unmarried lad for miles all about. Bell, now, I saw her in the Bywater market one morning, and I set my mind to court her. She was as pretty as a spring sunrise, and I weren't but a half-bad sight back in the day, not all withered and leathered like as I am now, and for some reason she took a fancy to me. I reckon there wasn't aught her Dad could do to keep us apart, not after he'd sent her three brothers up here to Hobbiton to teach me summat and I sent 'em all traipsing back to him a good deal the worse for wear." 

Sam just stared at the Gaffer, eyes round, hanging on each word out of his mouth. 

Gaffer Gamgee cleared his throat, face twisting with embarrassment. "Have on with 'ee; shut that lip or 'ee'll catch flies, Samwise Gamgee! Nowt but a ninnyhammer, making Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo wait while 'ee gawp at an old hobbit's rambling." He went out, grumbling. 

Sam had a bite of bread and cheese standing up by the roadside and watching the glow of the Sun spread on the horizon. A low clopping alerted him to someone on the Road, and he was surprised to find Mr. Frodo riding up from Bywater, leading a second pony for Sam and seated on the bay they'd ridden together the previous night. 

"Mount up, Sam," Frodo said softly. "Bilbo won't be riding with us, but don't worry. He isn't angry with you or with Jolly. Quite the opposite." 

Sam obeyed, scrambling up on to his pony. Mr. Frodo didn't seem inclined to talk, and soon Sam himself felt as subdued as the morning hush that lay over the land, broken only by a few cock-crows and by the distant murmur of an old Gammer singing a lay as they took the Hobbiton Road. 

Clopping towards Michel Delving at Frodo's side, Sam found he missed the warm intimacy of sharing a saddle with his master. The pale green fields, tall with slow-ripening grain, seemed unreal and dim with the fading of night. Spiderwebs hung in delicate lacy veils over the hedgerows, and occasionally a strand of web, flung wide across the road, broke against Sam's face. 

Sam kept quiet, abashed-- he could hardly credit the events of the evening past; neither the violence of the fight nor the fast-swelling heat and tender words that had followed in its wake seemed real or possible in the stillness before the Shire awoke. Even the crowing of cockerels in coops and barnyards as they passed made the previous evening's events seem unlikely. 

For his part, Frodo remained silent, his spine straight and his eyes turned straight ahead. He held his reins in a firm hand, seeming deep in thought. Sam didn't disturb him. 

They passed the Cotton house on their way, where Rosie and Jolly were already waiting by the hedge, shivering a little as they sat close together in the misty dawn. Jolly heeled their pony out to join the little procession, giving Mr. Frodo a polite nod. 

As they clopped on down the road, Sam looked over to Jolly and Rosie, who sat together Farmer Cotton's old grey plow-pony, riding to one side slightly behind Sam. Jolly avoided Sam's eye after the first polite nod, his head turned to one side and his eyes on the road, shaded from the diffuse glow of the rising sun by the ridge of his brow. 

The fog burned away gradually, and as they rode forth, Michel Delving appeared from behind a fold of land, low turf-roofed houses in a line along the Road and a few dozen round-doored holes dug into a bit of chalky green ridge. Trees shaded the lane there, and Sam could see Mr. Lotho's smart pony trap parked in the shade of a wide sycamore, the roan pony loose of its traces and champing on grass at the edge of the meadow. A knot of hobbits had gathered outside the Mayor's office, milling on the green at the edge of a common field, eager to watch any confrontation that might be forthcoming. 

Sam squirmed and stole a glance at Mr. Frodo's face, which was sober, his jaw set and his mouth firm. His eyes were clear. Sam looked away again quickly, glad Mr. Bilbo had chosen to remain behind. 

Well before they reached the outskirts of Michel Delving, Sam picked Ted Sandyman out of the crowd. He looked to be working his mouth fit to fan the breeze, for all he had a sore jaw-- or ought to, by rights; Sam certainly did. 

Ted caught Sam's eye as they came on, and his boasting voice dropped back into the crowd's excited buzz. Hobbits stepped out of the road to let Mr. Frodo and the cluster of ponies through, both sullen and eager faces looking up to greet the newcomers. 

Mr. Frodo dismounted and faced his cousin. "Good morning, Lotho." His voice was as cool and easy as an autumn breeze. 

"Frodo." Lotho puffed himself up, looking smug. 

Frodo turned and gave Rosie a hand down from the plow-pony, a courtesy which visibly flustered her. She hid her discomfort by arranging her skirts properly about her ankles. Sam knew she had to be right nervous, seeing as how she was the main witness and all. He took a moment to turn the three ponies loose next to Mr. Lotho's roan. 

"Let's go in," Frodo said when Sam finished nudging them towards the green. He set forth and ushered Rosie along with him, gathering Sam and Jolly with a nod. 

Mr. Lotho's face went livid as he realized he'd been maneuvered into letting Frodo's entire party precede him. He snapped his fingers sharp at Ted, who fell in at his heels with two other hobbits whose bruised and swollen faces Sam recognized from the brawl. They followed behind as Frodo pushed the door open and stepped into the musty, dark hall. 

Sam took his place behind Jolly, listening to the patter their feet made in the dim tile-floored tunnel of the smial, the whitewashed earthen walls failing somehow to damp the sound of their passing, as though the town hall were an empty hole long abandoned, echoing with lonely surprise at any visitor. Frodo paused before a curtain and knocked on the wooden door-frame that surrounded it. 

"Come in, Mr. Baggins." The Mayor's round, fruity tones were muffled behind the heavy curtain of faded blue velvet, its hem worn and dusty from years of brushing the wooden floor. Frodo pushed it aside and they filed in one by one, sitting down on hard wooden chairs ranged around the walls-- earth lined with rusty brick, to hold the warmth in winter. The room's single fireplace was not lit, but new logs had been laid to await the coming of autumn. Robin Smallburrow sat waiting, shifting with discomfort on a hard wooden chair behind the Mayor's desk. 

Frodo led his party to the right and Mr. Lotho took the left, shuffling his lads about until they sat just so. Sam sat as he had come, next to Jolly, who had taken Rosie's hand to comfort her. She sat beside Frodo, biting her lip and swinging her feet under her chair. 

A soft breeze stirred yellowed lace curtains at the window, but the Mayor seemed not to feel it, wiping his broad, florid face with a soft red pocket handkerchief. He trimmed his quill pen and finished placing the last strokes of runes on to the parchment under his hand, then creased it and reached to melt sealing-wax at his candle. It dripped official red on to the parchment, and he pressed his mayoral seal in to the soft wax, then pushed the whole array away from him. 

Sighing, he sat back and pushed his spectacles down his nose, looking over the rims first at Frodo, then at Lotho. Sam squirmed, hiding one foot under the other; he'd never been summoned afore the Mayor before, and didn't like it none now that he had. 

"Mayor Whitfoot," Frodo spoke promptly. "I claim the right of the injured party in this dispute, and I choose to speak last." 

Lotho uttered a deep snort, his face pinching with distaste. "How you are the injured party when your servant and his friend attacked my lads--" 

"We've got to go about this inquiry proper, or not at all, Mr. Lotho." the Mayor quelled him politely. Will Whitfoot had been Major for time out of mind, and he had the knack of smoothing ruffled feathers down pat-- even them as come from families above his own, seemingly. "Now, Mr. Frodo here, he's asked to speak last, and it seems to me that no matter who's injured, that gives Mr. Lotho the advantage of having his side heard first." He gazed evenly at Lotho. "Which is what you're wanting, seemingly, telling your side and all as part of your complaint. So you've my leave to continue, but I'll ask you to start from the beginning, proper-like." 

Lotho appeared to consider, then accepted the Mayor's opening. "My lads and I, we were minding our business in the Dragon when that young ruffian came in. Wilcome Cotton," he specified to answer the Mayor's patient look. "He was having a bit of a laugh with his cronies, and naturally we were curious to hear such an amusing tale, so I went over to inquire." 

Rosie made an indignant noise in her throat; Frodo's hand on her sleeve stilled her. 

"Fancy my shock at learning he was making slurs against the character of my good cousin!" Lotho shook his head. "Slurs I won't repeat in the company of a lass, even if she is a barmaid. And he didn't stop there; that Gamgee lad come in and joined him, and they weren't content to have at my cousin Frodo's reputation after that. They took mine on, as well. That Gamgee let on I was a drunkard, when I was as sober as you are this minute, Will Whitfoot! Now, my lads-- they like me. They're that loyal, they wouldn't put up with such a thing, and I admit they got a bit overheated in the moment--" 

It was Jolly's turn to sputter, and Frodo's look didn't quell him, neither, but Lotho drowned him out. "And when that Gamgee wouldn't take back his nonsense, they were honor bound to defend me, at least that's how they tell me they saw it, and so the fight broke out with me heading out to fetch the Shirriffs as fast as I could. Didn't I find you in the square, Robin Smallburrow?" 

"That he did." Robin looked a little like he wished he'd never heard of the Green Dragon. "And when I come in, all the lads were fighting and tearing up tables and breaking the crocks and mugs and all, so I put an end to it." 

Frodo remained unruffled, but he spoke up. "Do your lads have words to add? They're strangely silent. I would like to hear their tale." 

Ted Sandyman cleared his throat, glowering at his toes. "It happened just like Mr. Lotho said," he growled. "There ain't no need to go repeatin'." 

Mayor Whitfoot tested the nib of his quill pen against his ink-stained finger, thinking. "Mr. Frodo, what say you in answer?" 

"I say I don't have to talk for my own folk to be sure they speak aright." Mr. Frodo gazed serenely at Lotho. "Rose Cotton witnessed the start of the fight. Let her give her tale." Mr. Frodo's clear eyes fixed her, and she stood up, fidgeting with the corner of her apron, darting a quick look at her brother and Sam. 

"It were just another night at the Dragon, same as any," Rosie lifted her chin and quickly smoothed a quaver out of her tone. "Mr. Lotho's lads there were a bit rowdy, but nothing worse than usual, not till Jolly come in. Then that Mr. Lotho," Rosie swallowed hard, glancing nervously aside. "He had words with my brother, he did-- words as was meant to pick a fight!" 

"What was the content of these words?" Mayor Whitfoot made a lace of his fingers, the first two rising and taking the place of his quill against his lip. 

"He said..." Rosie crimsoned. "All them s... slurs? Them slurs, Mayor, that he said my brother and Sam made against Mr. Frodo and him? He made them himself, against Mr. Frodo and Sam here, just as plain as the nose on his face, which is plenty plain, if you ask me!" She darted Lotho an impertinent look in spite of her nervousness, then dabbed at her sweating face with the tail of her apron, her toes curling with distress on the wooden floor. 

"And as for Mr. Lotho, he was about drunk-- I served him five big mugs of the best ale myself, and I didn't water it none, for all I should have! Jolly now, he didn't make no insult at all, nor did Sam. Sam just said he might have had a drop more than was good for him and said it might be best for him to find his way home instead of talking in his cups. Then Mr. Lotho, he said Sam meant he was a drunkard, and he told off his lads to fight them both." 

She sat down abruptly, skirts flouncing out around her. Her knuckles were white, her hands fisted in her apron. 

"A fine tale she tells, with her own brother and her sweetheart sitting on the one side, and the master of the Hill promising her sweetmeats and new frocks on the other!" Lotho spat. 

Frodo raised a brow at the Mayor, who sat back, tapping the feather of his quill against his pursed lips for a moment. "These slurs." Wil Whitfoot looked over his glasses soberly, undaunted by the interruption. "Regardless of who they may have been aimed by, or at, were clearly a serious matter. What were they precisely, Mr. Lotho?" 

That gave Lotho pause; he sat back, all a-dither. "I told you Gamgee said I was a drunkard, and my boys wouldn't--" 

"The slurs involving your cousin's character." The Mayor remained placid. "What were they?" 

Lotho seemed to grope for words, his mouth working as his face flushed first red, then white. 

Frodo spoke quietly, his voice absolutely dry. "They involved the nature of my relationship, both personal and professional, with my gardener. The former is not the concern of this inquiry; the latter is a matter of private record, recorded on various rolls of accounting that are kept in Bilbo's study, and can be produced at need." 

"Samwise Gamgee, do you have anything to add to Mistress Cotton's tale?" Wil Whitfoot looked him straight in the eye. 

"No, sir," Sam shook his head. "Except that I weren't there for the first part, and when I come in, Mr. Lotho stood there already, up in Jolly's face saying things just as rude as he could think of, and he weren't looking to back down peaceful-like. We done all as we could to keep from a fight, and it was Ted Sandyman as threw the first punch when Mr. Lotho told him he must." 

Lotho huffed loudly, but the Mayor ignored him, and Wil's eyes moved on serenely. "Wilcome Cotton?" 

"Sam and Rosie have the right of it, Mayor." Jolly inclined his head, polite. "We tried to turn away harsh words with kind ones, but the time come when we had to stand and fight or take a beating." 

"And these harsh words involved Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins." 

"Mr. Lotho made rough slurs and talked dirty talk about them both, sir." Jolly lifted his chin. "It weren't a proper gentlehobbit's conversation, and it weren't none of his business neither way, is how I see it." 

It was Sam's turn to feel his toes curl painfully tight on the cool floor; the topic alone made him that uncomfortable. Wil harumphed, looking to Robin, who nodded once, solemnly. "I heard as much from a few of those I questioned-- the rest said they didn't see how it started. Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but there's been foolish talk about, and most knows it comes from folk who ought to know better, starting with that Adley Meadowes, who might be a beekeeper, but he ain't got the sense to know you've got to take your shirt off quick to get bees out from under it, once they've found their way inside." 

Mayor Whitfoot chuckled in spite of himself, shaking his head. "Tongues will wag over ale, and a tale grows twofold with each telling, as they say." He put his quill down again and folded his hands. "I reckon we've come to you, Mr. Frodo. Speak your grievance, then." He adjusted his posture, his loose-jointed wooden chair giving a warning groan under his bulk. 

"I have none." Frodo remained as calm as a still pond. "I have no quarrel with Samwise Gamgee or Jolly Cotton. If they see fit to discuss my character over ale, I have every confidence in their discretion and their ability to judge a need to defend my honor as it may be required." Frodo sounded almost bland. "My uncle is in agreement with my opinion, and we are prepared to pay the share of damages assessed to their charge by this inquiry." 

Sam heard Jolly suck a low hiss of air; he wasn't sure he hadn't done the same himself. His heart beat fast, making his head giddy, even as his stomach clutched with a sick sensation at the thought of bringing such a cost to his masters. 

"And with regard to Mr. Lotho?" Sam glanced up right sharp; for a second he near thought the Mayor was about to laugh. 

"I have similar amount of confidence in the correctness of Sam and Jolly's conduct regarding any of my cousin's affairs, as does my cousin Bilbo. We stand behind their words and actions." Frodo inclined his head gracefully. 

That *was,* it *was* a twinkle in the Mayor's eye! Sam hardly dared to breathe; Mr. Lotho made a sound halfway between a huff and a snarl. Much as it pleased the Mayor, Mr. Frodo's answer made Lotho bristle with rage. But then again, he hadn't landed a blow nor destroyed no property in the fight, so Sam reckoned he wasn't liable for no punishment nohow, for all that he started things. 

"And what about Ted Sandyman?" Mayor Whitfoot passed lightly over Frodo's delicate barb. 

"Tongues will wag over ale, as you say, and heads grow hot when hasty words are spoken." Mr. Frodo regarded Sandyman with a level stare, just long enough to let him start to sweat. "I have no complaint to lodge against Ted or his companions above and beyond the innkeeper's claim for damages to the Green Dragon." 

"We've come around the circle, then." The Mayor reached for his pipe and his tobacco pouch. "Robin?" 

"It's one lot's word against the other, and naught but hearsay to judge them by." Robin shrugged. 

"Equal shares in the damages, then," Mayor Whitfoot intoned as he thumbed a bit of Longbottom Leaf into the wide, flat bowl of his pipe. "And an agreement not to repeat the incident, or a substantial fine will be levied against both parties." 

"Agreed," Frodo answered, instantly and evenly. 

"This is a farce!" Spittle sprayed from Mr. Lotho's mouth, speckling the dusty floor. "My word means less than drivel from a plowhand, a barmaid, and that Brandybuck's catamite?" 

All eyes turned to him, and Sam blinked with startlement; goaded to fury, Mr. Lotho let fly just two words too many. Lotho bit his tongue, visibly annoyed with himself. The Mayor and Robin exchanged quick glances. 

"Perhaps it is a farce." The Mayor's eyes were cold as flint now, fixing Mr. Lotho with no hint of good humor. "But unless my ears mistake me, it's you who is slandering your cousin's reputation, and Master Gamgee's." 

"I agree," Mr. Frodo broke in as Mayor Whitfoot stopped to gather his breath. "And with these words in my presence, my cousin has made this affair a personal matter, a matter of honor and insult between gentlemen. I am no longer content to settle for payment of equal shares." 

The whole room fell silent, and the only sound came from birds twittering in the hawthorn bush outside the Mayor's window. Sam held his breath. 

"Mr. Frodo--" Mayor Whitfoot mopped his brow anxiously with his worn red handkerchief, but Frodo stood still and proud. 

"By law of the Shire, I have taken insult and I claim the right to challenge my cousin, Lotho Sackville Baggins, to a gentleman's duel," Frodo spoke, cool and smooth. "Before these witnesses, I challenge Lotho Sackville-Baggins to duel by fisticuffs a week from this day, until one of us shall be judged unable to fight or shall sue for mercy. The loser shall settle the debt at the Green Dragon." 

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam blurted, agonized, but Frodo's raised hand silenced him. 

Mr. Lotho stared at Frodo, face white, eyes darting about like a trapped rat's. "Agreed," he finally muttered, voice hoarse; Sam didn't know much about the law, but he reckoned to deny such a challenge would be to let himself in for the debt and to lose face throughout the whole Shire both. 

"I choose as my lieutenant one Samwise Gamgee, for he is concerned in this matter." Frodo pressed ahead, calm and confident. 

Lotho glowered; Sam reckoned the Sackville-Bagginses wouldn't think him a proper second at all, for he was no gentlehobbit. 

"And I choose as my lieutenant one Ted Sandyman, for he is concerned in this matter also," Lotho spat after a moment. From the outside of his eye, Sam watched the corner of Mr. Frodo's mouth curl ever-so-slightly with what had to be satisfaction. 

"We will duel on the common field here in Michel Delving," Frodo declared. "On neutral ground." 

"Agreed." Mr. Lotho looked like he'd bit into a sour apple. 

"So witnessed," Mayor Whitfoot and Robin Smallburrow chorused dully, and the rest of the room echoed them, a ragged riffle of voices. Sam joined his in at the last moment, trying to catch Mr. Frodo's eye, but Mr. Frodo wasn't having none of it, looking calmly at Mr. Lotho without no fear in his eye. 

Mayor Whitfoot stood up, looking dismayed. "Let the word go forth that one week from this day, witnesses shall gather at the designated place to see this duel between Frodo Baggins and Lotho Sackville-Baggins carried out in accordance with the proper terms and conditions of the law," he told Robin, who nodded gravely. 

He sat down then, taking up his quill, and wrote out the proclamation in careful, slow strokes. When he was done, he dried the ink with a pinch of ash from the fireplace and all the witnesses lined up to sign, dipping another ceremonial quill into a bottle of red ink. Mr. Frodo and Mr. Lotho went first, each pressing a signet ring into a smudge of wax that the Mayor provided for him when he had finished. Then Sam and Ted stepped up to sign, glowering at one another in turn. Even Jolly and Rosie made their clumsy marks on the heavy parchment. 

Only when the ceremony was finished did Mr. Frodo remove his cool gaze from Lotho to shake hands with Mayor Whitfoot and with Robin Smallburrow. Polite but restrained in his courtesy, Mr. Frodo then offered his arm and escorted Rosie out like a proper gentlehobbit. 

Sam and Jolly exchanged distressed glances and followed behind. Jolly looked like somebody had pole-axed him right between the eyes, and Sam didn't feel no better. It promised to be a long week ahead.


	47. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo prepares for his duel with Lotho Sackville-Baggins.

Sam woke early and climbed out of his warm bed to wash, grimacing at his shoulder, which was stiff and sore. He didn't have no mirror but a bit of polished tin, but even in candlelight on its dull surface, he could make out the ugly black blotches on his flesh. He could see some of them, too, if he twisted his neck about, already turning a sickly greenish-yellow about the edges. 

There wasn't naught he could do about it, so he eased into his shirt ginger-like and went out to have a bite standing up in the kitchen. He dusted off the crumbs and stepped out when he'd finished, finding a slow-brightening, clear sky and soft grey dew lying thick on the grass. He padded up to Bag End, but didn't go inside; Mr. Bilbo's orders had changed, and now Sam's everyday chores were secondary to the business of readying Frodo for his duel. 

Instead of going in to start the fires, Sam went around to the shed and found a stiff burlap sack, which he stuffed with mulching straw, shaking it down to pack it from time to time. When he judged it was solid enough, he tied its mouth shut with a bit of rope and went back outside with it slung over his good shoulder. He tossed the rope over a stout tree limb on his second try and made it fast around the trunk. 

By this time the Sun was coming up, and Sam could hear the dull rattle of a waggon trundling up the hill. It sounded heavy-laden, by his way of thinking, and they were low on firewood, so it was probably a delivery. 

He went around the edge of the smial to look, and sure enough, it was Jolly Cotton carting a load of wood up the Hill for Bag End's cooking fires. By Jolly's wry expression and him arriving before dawn with the load, Sam could tell Farmer Cotton didn't think much of no Bagginses dueling to pay off his son's brawling debt, and was working a punishment out of Jolly's hide, as predicted. 

"Morning, Jolly." 

"Morning, Sam." Jolly clucked to the ponies and pulled his wagon over to the edge of the Road, then bid them stand. "I could use a bit of help hauling this lot up to the shed, if you're up to it." 

"It looks like you could," Sam agreed, working his shoulder a bit. The morning's labors had loosened it, at least, though they'd done naught to help the ache. As he stepped down on to the Road, the Sun pushed up over the horizon, and bright rays of light began to warm the cool morning, making the dew sparkle like liquid gold anywhere they fell. He could hear someone stirring about inside Bag End now, and the wind carried a whiff of fresh wood smoke to his nostrils, so he reckoned he weren't wanted inside. 

Together they unloaded the cart and trotted up and down the path to pile the unsplit logs next to the woodshed. It took the both of them to manage some of the heavier rounds, rolling them up the flagstone walk with a bit of difficulty, but finally they were done, and they sat down atop two of the rounds, puffing. Sam's bruised shoulder ached right sharp from the heavy work, but by and large he felt better than he had a right to. 

Mr. Frodo appeared at the back door, a piece of toast and jam in hand; he waved and vanished again, and when he returned, he had a tray in his hands. 

"Oh, Mr. Frodo, you shouldn't have," Sam objected, jumping up and rushing to take it. There was a little pot of honey and a pile of toast, some of Belladonna Goodbody's best fresh butter and half a pot of strawberry jam, two mugs and a pitcher of milk, silver spoons and forks and knives, and a wide covered dish of eggs scrambled with bacon. 

"Much obliged, Mr. Frodo." Jolly touched his cap, helping Sam with the tray. They set it right on a round of wood and sat down on the ground beside it to eat; Frodo joined them, taking a bit of bacon from the dish with his fingers. A sparrow hopped up on to the nearby fence to tilt its head and watch, hoping for crumbs, so Sam tossed it a bit of crust. It eyed him warily before hopping down on to the grass to take the crust in its beak and fly away to its nest again. 

Frodo's eyes lingered on the oak tree where the sack hung, and he studied it, thoughtful. "Is that for me to hit?" 

"That it is," Sam answered when he had swallowed his mouthful of toast and butter. He reached for his milk to wash it down. 

"Bilbo's riding off to the museum to fetch his mail and his helm from his journey, but I won't be needing them against that," Frodo mused. 

"You'll need to fight a bit with something as has fists, too, sir," Jolly agreed, looking cautiously aside at Sam. "Punching on a bag of straw, now, that might make you hit harder, but it won't teach you what to do when fists are flying at you." 

"Aye," Sam agreed reluctantly. "That it won't." 

"I did fight a few times as a lad at Brandy Hall," Frodo reminded them, his tones dry. 

"Scuffles between friends, mayhap, sir?" Jolly dipped his head, deferential. 

"Mostly. Not always." Frodo's eyes moved beyond Jolly, staring towards the horizon, looking far away, and Sam wondered if he'd won those as weren't. Somehow, he doubted it. 

With Frodo's occasional help in the form of thieving a few tidbits, Sam and Jolly polished the plates clean. When they'd finished, Sam gathered up all the breakfast things, padding inside with them while Jolly went to check on his ponies and the cart. It took a moment to wash up, then another to put everything away, and by the time he got back outside, Mr. Bilbo was back, his pony lathered from the quick trot to Michel Delving and back. 

Sam took the pony off to the shed and rubbed it down roughly with a bit of sacking, clucking to it soothingly as he curried it smooth again. He listened with half an ear while Mr. Bilbo spun a tale as he unpacked his armor. The Battle of Five Armies was a story Sam had known by heart ever since he could toddle about on his own. He smiled to himself, listening contentedly to the Master of Bag End, and emerged as soon as the pony was well-tended and fed. 

"--even the Eagles came to fight at the end, swooping out of the West on wings as wide from tip to tip as this yard is long," Bilbo raised his arms wide, indicating the whole length of Bag End. 

"I'd not like to see such a bird, myself," Jolly shuddered, running his fingers over the shining mail in wonder. "Why, it could pick you right off the ground and carry you away to its nest like a rabbit!" 

"That it could," Bilbo chuckled. "And it once did, but that's part of another tale." He lifted up the helm. "Frodo, let's see if this will fit you." He lowered it over Frodo's head, clucking to himself; the helm was a bit loose. Sam bit back a smile; Frodo looked all but cross-eyed with the ridiculous thing perched on his head, what with the long narrow nose-guard jutting down between the two eyeholes. "Near enough," Bilbo judged. "You won't need the corselet after all, I daresay; it's made to turn edged weapons, not fists." 

He stood, dusting the knees of his breeches, and picked up the glimmering silver mail. "I'd best be off and let you lads get to it. Sam, take that pony back to the stables when you've finished here." 

"Yes, Mr. Bilbo." Sam ducked his head respectfully, and the master of Bag End nodded absently, then padded off around the yard with the mail-shirt in his hand. 

"Will you stay, Jolly?" Frodo looked quietly towards him. "Sam and I could use your help." 

Jolly glanced away. "My Dad won't be none too happy if I'm not back well in the fore-noon, Mr. Frodo, but after all of Sam's help unloading, I can spare an hour, if that'll do." 

"Thank you." Mr. Frodo stood up. "We'd best get started then." 

Sam stood up too and studied Frodo critically, not entirely certain of what he was doing and trying to decide where to start. 

"I reckon you may as well go stand in front of that sack, Mr. Frodo." Sam watched him, feeling a soft, warm little flutter in his heart as Frodo obeyed. "First, set your feet." Sam watched Frodo shuffle his feet a little in the soft green grass, spreading them bit farther apart. "Aye, like that," Sam approved, eyeing him critically. 

Jolly stepped out of the way to watch and perched himself on the chopping block, setting the stem of his cold pipe between his teeth. "Aye," he agreed. "A bit wider than you'd usually stand, but not too far, Mr. Frodo." 

Frodo shuffled again, looking determined; Sam squashed another smile. "All right, lift your fists like you mean to fight." 

Frodo did, biting at his lip. 

"That won't do," Sam fretted. "You'll wear the hide off your hands hitting that rough burlap, Mr. Frodo." 

"Bilbo and I tore up the third-best bed linens to bind about my hands," Frodo turned about, and Sam spotted the sack full of cloth strips lying neglected on the grass. 

"That ought to do," he fetched the torn strips of sheeting up and wrapped Mr. Frodo's hands as best he could, fixing thick pads of folded cloth over his knuckles and tying the awkward bundles tight. "Can you close your fists, sir?" 

Frodo did so, the cloth creaking slightly as it adjusted to his fists. 

"Don't tuck your thumbs inside your fingers, sir." Jolly advised before Sam could speak. Frodo adjusted his hands obediently. Sam could see his knuckles were white, the only sign of nerves that betrayed him. He looked a fair foolish sight, and that was a fact. 

"Let's see you hit that sack, Mr. Frodo." Sam moved to stand behind the sack and brace it. 

Frodo squared himself, drew back his fist, and delivered a blow. It thudded dully against the burlap; Sam stood steady. 

Jolly's eyes quickly sought for Sam's, and met them, looking rueful. Sam cleared his throat. "That's a fine start, Mr. Frodo. Don't worry about hurtin' me none. There's plenty of straw in there to cushion it." 

Frodo chuckled ruefully. "I'll try harder." He struck again, grunting a little. 

"I felt that," Sam nodded, a little relieved. "That's a sight better." 

Jolly got up off the stump, leaving his pipe behind him. "If you don't mind me helping a bit, sir?" 

"Of course not." Mr. Frodo adjusted the helm; Jolly bit his lip, then laid hesitant hands on Frodo's shoulders, turning him a little. 

"Try a few like that, or move about till you feel right. Don't worry about punching hard just yet. Both hands, sir." 

Frodo listened, squaring off and letting fly again, left and right, awkward at first but growing more certain, starting to swing with a bit of a rhythm. This time when Jolly and Sam's eyes met, Sam nodded satisfaction. 

"That's it," Sam murmured, starting to lean into the bag. "A bit harder now, Mr. Frodo." 

Mr. Frodo obliged him, striking hard and putting more of his weight behind the blows. He was soon all of a sweat, breathing sharp, and Sam judged mayhap that was the worst problem, right there-- he'd need to last a bit longer before he tired, and that was a fact. 

"We'll have to have you walking a good bit. Nice steep hills, too," Sam commented thoughtfully. "So you can keep a bit more wind in your lungs, Mr. Frodo." 

"Aye," Jolly agreed. "He'll be able to move quick, and that's a fact. If he can tire that Pimple without--" Jolly flushed crimson. "Sorry, Mr. Frodo, sir." 

"Jolly, don't trouble yourself with courtesy for my sake in speaking of one who has showed you none." Frodo smiled, the expression strange, almost diffident, under the nose-piece of the helm. "It isn't as if he's my favorite relation." 

"Well, I wouldn't want to bring no disrespect to the name of Baggins," Jolly hedged, embarrassed. 

"If any has been brought, Lotho has done it himself," Frodo said firmly. "I consider you a friend and an ally, Jolly. I won't stand on formal ceremony with you, and I don't expect you to do so with me." He offered his hand, muffled in linen, and Jolly took it, uncertain. They shook on the bargain, Jolly's jaw firming with pride. Sam released a slow breath, relieved to see the wary set of Jolly's shoulders relaxing. 

"Well, then, as I was about to be saying, Mr. Frodo, after you tire that Pimple out from trying to hit you and missing," Jolly continued, still a bit shy-like, "You can step in and take him down quick." 

"That's how I reckon it." Sam nodded satisfaction. "You'll need to be right quick on your feet, Mr. Frodo, so you can dance back whenever he swings at you. You can't stand there and let him batter away, or he'll hurt you too bad to go on while he's still fresh, see?" 

"I see." Frodo pushed up the heavy helm again. "It seems a good strategy." 

Sam flushed. "It'll be easier said than done. It's one thing to strike a bag of straw, but it's another when fists are flying back at you and all." 

"Well, that's what this is for." Frodo indicated the helm he wore. 

Sam sighed. "I don't like to do it, sir, and that's a fact. There's too much chance you could get hurt." 

"I won't break, Sam." The thinnest whisper of impatience tightened Frodo's voice. 

Sam sighed helplessly and reached for the extra linen strips, binding them up around his rough, callused hands with Jolly's help-- trying to bunch quite a bit of pillow at the knuckles for Frodo's sake, not his own. "I'll pull my punches, sir, but that Mr. Lotho, now-- he won't, so don't count on not being hit, hard, when the time comes." 

Frodo nodded grimly and Sam pulled a knot on his right hand tight with his teeth while Jolly finished helping with his left, fussing with the padding. 

Sam cleared his throat, fretting with worry, and faced off against Frodo. "I'll warrant I can dodge a punch or two, sir, and at any rate, with these pads on your hands you won't hurt me." He caught Jolly's anxious glance from behind Frodo's back, and failed to acknowledge it. "You try to keep back from what I throw, or bat it away, and if I'm not keeping on my guard, you put a punch through the hole. It's what you're looking for Lotho to do, and it's what you'll do when he does." 

Frodo bit his lip, but then nodded, and again pushed the helmet back. He settled his feet and lifted his hands, looking wary. 

"Soft at first," Sam said, matching word to deed, and he tapped lightly at Frodo's hands. Frodo pushed him back, a bit clumsy. "Good. Again now." He lifted his left fist and batted at Frodo's hands. "Hold them higher, sir. He'll go for your face more often than not, I'll warrant; he'll want to leave an ugly bruise for all to see, if he can. Good, like that." 

Jolly chuckled a bit. "Harder, Sam, he's got a metal helm on him." 

"Aye." Sam shook his head a bit, keeping his own fists cautiously raised. "A bit harder now." He made good on his word, buffeting Frodo back a step, but he was blocked. "Right. Dance back when I throw my fists." He reached out again, and Frodo dodged him. "That's it, Mr. Frodo. Don't let me hit you." He speeded up a little, still nothing like a real fight, and caught Mr. Frodo's Frodo's cheek-guard, a loose glancing blow. Frodo shook it off visibly even as Sam quailed, and came back at him with a sharp little strike that almost made it through Sam's guard, responding to Sam's momentary dither. 

"Aye." Jolly chuckled. "That's the way, Mr. Frodo." 

Sam laughed a bit. "You'll do for me if I don't watch myself, won't you, sir?" He wondered if he imagined the flicker of heat that kindled in Frodo's eye to greet his words. "Don't let me near you now." He led with his fists as he pushed back in, and Frodo gave way before him, knocking away blows and staying out of range, as light as you please. Sam tapped him a few times, a strike or two on the helm and one on the chest, pointing out moments when his feet or hands were too slow, but going easy. 

After a bit he realized guiltily that he was enjoying himself after all; Frodo's neck and chest were gleaming with sweat and he had begun panting. His curls clung to his neck under the ugly helm, but he met Sam stubbornly, keeping back but never running. Even when they set in a hard line his lips were pink and flushed, and he-- 

Sam reeled back suddenly, dizzy from a blow he never saw coming, and went to one knee, shaking his head. 

"Sam!" Frodo yelped in alarm, jerking off the clumsy helmet and hurrying forward to examine the damage. 

Jolly's rich chuckle brought a hot flush to Sam's cheeks. "That's just what you ought to do, Mr. Frodo. He ain't hurt, not Sam Gamgee. His head's too hard. If a chair broke over his back don't slow him down, your fists won't stop him that easy." He reached for Sam's hand and hauled him up. "Think he can take that Lotho Pimple now, Sam?" 

"Aye," Sam mumbled, working his jaw with some embarrassment. "I'll warrant he can, at that!" He settled himself on his feet again, and met Mr. Frodo's eyes, blushing. "If you catch that Mr. Lotho with a good hard one to the nose or to the chin, I reckon he won't stand up and ask for any more," he shook the knots out of his muscles and smiled, hoping it would smooth the concerned wrinkles from Frodo's forehead. 

"That's the truth, I'll warrant." Jolly went back to the stump and fetched up his pipe. "I'd best be getting down the road now; my dad will wonder what I'm about, taking his ponies and cart off and staying half the day. If you like, Mr. Frodo," he shot a hesitant look at Sam even as he spoke, "I'll ask if he can spare me of a morning for the week, to come up for a bit every day and help out." 

"I'd be grateful," Frodo answered gently, and Sam approved that his master knew enough not to promise Jolly naught in the way of pay, but to do things this way and keep his promise not to be standing on ceremony. 

Jolly touched his cap and made his way off out of sight and down to his cart, clucking to the ponies and heading them down the Road again with a clatter of hooves and a creaking of wheels. Frodo turned back to Sam, chin set with determination. 

"I'm out of shape, I'm afraid, Sam, but we'll soon set that to rights." Frodo shook his head a bit. "I think I've a chance, if he doesn't try to cheat. If he does, I'm afraid I don't know what to watch out for." 

"Aye, and Mr. Lotho's just the sort to try anything he can," Sam answered wryly. "If he can get a bit of dust in his hand, he'll fling it in your eyes, or mayhap he'll hook his foot behind your ankle and pull you down. That Ted will be working with him, you mark my words on it, and there's not a dirty trick he doesn't know." 

"What do I do if he knocks me down?" 

"Try to get up again quick as you may, Mr. Frodo. That's just where you don't want to be nohow; he's a good bit heavier than you, and he'll try to pin you and strike till you cry mercy." Sam bit his lip. "We ought to do a bit of wrestling too, I reckon, and we can show you a thing or two about getting away from someone as wants to hold you down." 

"All right," Frodo agreed. "I think I have my wind back, if you'd like to try it now." Again Sam startled a glimmer of heat in Mr. Frodo's eyes, and he weren't surprised to feel a flutter of his own, though he didn't like to think too close about it-- wanting to pin Mr. Frodo under him? That was a bit too much like what Mr. Lotho said.... 

"Well, I suppose we might, though Jolly's a sight better at that sort of thing than I am, sir." Sam weighed reluctance to scuffle with his master against desire and duty-- two against one. It was plain what he had to do. He looked at the soft lawn; there weren't no moles to tunnel up the ground and make it soft, for he kept them killed off regular, but the grass was long and thick, and the earth wasn't packed quite firm yet after a winter's freezing and thawing. There weren't no better place to go. 

"All right, well." Sam dithered a bit. "I don't want to knock you down, Mr. Frodo, for there ain't no sense in you running the risk of getting hurt and having to back out of the fight, but I'll show you what he's like to do." Sam put up his hands and Frodo carefully re-settled the heavy helm, then responded in kind. 

"Now, let's say I work away at you like this." Sam threw a gentle, short jab at Frodo and pulled back right quick, backing away without raising his fists all the way up again. "What do you do?" 

"I'd follow you back, and try to strike through the hole, like you told me." 

"Aye, and in a fair fight, that's just what to do-- but unless I mistake, there ain't no rules in this against knocking you off your feet. Now let's do that again." Sam threw the jab again, backing away. He did it again, and again, and as Frodo followed, sure enough, he put his leading leg forward, and Sam put his own foot out quick, behind it-- 

"Oh!" Frodo blinked and dropped his fists, feeling the coarse hair atop Sam's foot, which had hooked deft-like behind his ankle, pulling just enough to let Frodo know how quick he could fall. "I see." 

"Aye." Sam let his mouth crook up. "And if I was Mr. Lotho, I'd pull right sharp, and down you'd go. You shouldn't ought to let any part of you get ahead of the rest, if you follow; when you do, that part's weak, for there's naught to defend it with." He set his foot back on the ground. "Fighting ain't straightforward. You've got to watch out or you'll get fooled into doing what the other fellow wants." 

"Right." Frodo nodded and pushed the helm up. "A feint." 

Sam considered the word, a new one to him. "If that means a trick to get you to move a certain way, then I reckon you're right, sir. There's all kinds of those. Sometimes the other fellow might stumble a-purpose to draw you in, or leave a hole to tempt you, or lunge one way and then go the other." 

Frodo laughed ruefully. "What will he do when he knocks me down?" 

Sam's mouth felt dry. "Well, he'll pile on top of you. If he can pin you-- hold you down so you can't get free-- the Mayor will judge you've lost, I'll warrant. If he can't, he'll try to hit you while you can't move away. You've got to knock him off you and scramble up." 

"It's been years since I scuffled with my cousins. Show me how." Frodo knelt, meaning Sam to follow, and Sam's head fair swam: Mr. Frodo kneeling at his feet? Now there was a sight to tempt even the Powers. Him lying back on the green was even better, and Sam swallowed thickly. Don't be such a ninnyhammer, Sam Gamgee-- he's not spreading himself out like a midsummer feast; there's work to be done here. 

"This is just where Jolly would be handy, sir, for you could watch us and see how this is done," Sam hedged. 

"Sam," Frodo laughed. "I won't bite. Come on." 

Sam eased himself down to one knee, feeling his ears grow hot. "Well, all right, sir. I'll get over you, and when I do, you've got to buck me off. Lift up your hips and roll, if you can." He tried to remember how he did that himself, a frown wrinkling his face as he thought. "Pulling up your knee ought to help you buck harder." 

Frodo nodded, waiting, and Sam eased over him, biting his lip, trying not to meet his master's eye. He set his knees on either side of Mr. Frodo's hips, not lowering his body down, reaching for Mr. Frodo's forearms and pushing them into the grass. "Now, sir." 

Frodo considered him, and Sam felt him draw up his knee, lifting his hips and squirming to one side. It shook him, but didn't send him toppling. 

"It doesn't work," Frodo bit his lip. 

"Do it right quick, sir." Sam settled himself and Mr. Frodo tried again, managing a bit more force. "That almost worked." He frowned, wondering how to make Frodo stronger. 

"Maybe if my leg hits you." Frodo's voice showed some strain. "Again?" 

"Aye." 

This time Frodo exploded into motion, and sure enough, his leg struck Sam, bucking him forward-- and unseating him enough that the twist of Frodo's hips toppled him sideways and onto the green. Frodo sprang up, clutching at the helm, and stood over him, his face brightening. "Like that!" he laughed. 

"Just like that," Sam agreed, and Frodo quickly tumbled back down beside him. 

"Let's do it again," Frodo lay back eagerly. "I need to practice." 

"Aye," Sam agreed, and eased onto Frodo again-- but this time he dared to lie flat, putting all of his weight down. Their eyes locked, and Frodo's went wide, but not with dismay. His tongue darted out to lick his lips-- a long slow stroke that left them pink and soft. 

"I can't hit you with my leg if we're lying like this." His voice was almost steady. 

"Mr. Lotho will likely fall onto you, sir, not sit over you." Sam tried to keep his voice as even. "See if you can't do it anyhow." 

Frodo nodded, drawing a deep breath-- and pushed, struggling against Sam. 

"Keep trying till you roll me over," Sam stayed where he was, trying to ignore the delightful sensation of his master wriggling under him. "Try pushing with both legs, then rolling right quick." 

Frodo did, and the lunge succeeded, but Sam hung on, dizzily watching Frodo's head as it appeared framed against the bright sky, then he lifted himself, throwing Frodo off in turn and pinning him against the grass again. 

"You're cheating," Frodo panted on a laugh. 

Sam laughed too, a soft puff of air. "I'm not." Frodo felt hot and solid between his thighs, if he let himself think on it-- which he'd best not. "What do you do now?" 

"Keep moving, I guess, until I can squirm free," Frodo considered. 

"Aye. If you don't keep him busy, he'll find a way to hurt you-- or pin you proper." 

"How?" 

"Like this, mayhap." Sam tightened his grip and rolled them once more-- and this time he let go of Frodo except for his wrist-- and when they came up again, it was with Frodo on his belly, and Sam atop him. He held Frodo's arm tucked up at the small of his back. "This one, now, you can't break out of; you've lost." 

Frodo laughed helplessly. "This is harder than it looks." 

"That it is." Sam let him go and Frodo flopped onto his back, his shirt smudged with green grass and dark soil. "But I'm thinking Mr. Lotho won't have my know-how. Sir." He remembered too late to add the word, and wondered when he'd last said it. Sam felt giddy; he could almost forget the piercing ache of his shoulder in the surge of high spirits from rolling about and feeling Mr. Frodo's slim body under him. 

"Again," Frodo arranged himself and Sam laughed, all too eager to oblige him, craving the feel of Mr. Frodo moving and tumbling against him, glad they were tucked away out of sight behind the smial where not a soul could see. He could get used to this all too quick, if it was allowed. 

He reached for Frodo, but his master dodged, rolling away quickly. The helm fell off him and rolled away, unheeded. 

"Catch me," Frodo laughed, and darted away like a fish, rolling and coming up on his knees. Sam lunged, exhilarated, and caught his waist, but Frodo writhed, slippery as an eel, and nearly got himself free, scrabbling to crawl away even as Sam fell forwards atop him. 

"Oh, no you don't," Sam heard himself rumble, half-laughing and half in threat, working his way up Frodo's writhing body and pinning him on his belly, hips to hips, catching his arms, chest to Frodo's shoulders, stilling his struggles-- and realizing Frodo was no longer laughing; his breath had begun to come in steepening gasps. His head half-turned, and Sam could see his face in profile-- his eyes shut, his lips open. His wrists grew still inside Sam's hands, and the fight flowed out of him, all but the struggle of his lungs, working to draw breath under Sam's weight. Even his legs stilled, relaxing to let Sam sink between them. 

Sam felt himself tense, growing instantly, painfully erect-- his flesh pressed hard against the swell of Frodo's hips by his own weight. Frodo's teeth sank in his lower lip, small and white; all the world ceased to breathe. 

Frodo offered no resistance. 

"Begging your pardon, sir." Sam muttered gruffly, rolling off Frodo, his head whirling with shame and desire. 

Frodo's breath hissed through his teeth; he twisted, and while Sam was still struggling with his composure, Frodo's weight struck him, pushing him over. Sam winced as his shoulder hit the ground, clutching at Frodo, but forgot it when Frodo's body fell on him, hands seeking his arms. "No you don't," Frodo echoed, and his eyes blazed, brilliant crystal. He shifted, and Sam realized abruptly what he felt-- a hard ridge straining against his thigh. His master's arousal, equal to his own. 

Sam gulped, hands tightening without need for the command of his will, fingers clutching Frodo's shoulders. 

"Ohhh..." a low moan escaped Sam, and the corners of Frodo's mouth curled to hear it; his hands moved again, pushing Sam's arms to the dirt, and Sam felt himself kindle under Frodo's command, desire and rebellion mingling with exhilaration. He turned them over easily, and then let Frodo roll them again, tumbling them down the grassy slope until they came to a halt against the leaf-pile, Sam half-buried in the rustling pillow. There they lay with their legs locked together, breath coming fast. 

"Sam...." Frodo whispered. Sam could feel his breath, soft and warm, could almost taste him. Frodo's lashes sank shut, and his head moved; Sam opened his lips and met Frodo's tongue with his own. Frodo gently rocked against him, and Sam let his legs part to cradle his master's body, hard and hot against his own. Golden sunlight dappled patterns of scarlet against Sam's closed lids and his blood raced in his ears; every rustle magnified itself, a soft percussion that moved in time to the nudging of Frodo's hips and the liquid velvet strokes of his tongue. Sam moaned, arms sliding around Frodo's waist, crushing him close-- 

And then flinched when something struck his arms, batting in a panic at something spiky and sharp and rustling. He opened his eyes to find a branch fallen on to them, not a very heavy one, but full of leaves and large enough. It lay over Frodo's back and his arm, and Sam flung it off. 

Frodo stared at it, startled. "Where did that come from?" he murmured, raking his hair out of his eyes. His tense, lithe body shifted between Sam's thighs. 

"Off a tree, and no mistake," Sam teased him; they lay near the trunk of a spreading maple, which stood cheek by jowl with a slender elm. But Frodo was frowning, a crease pinched between his brows. 

"But this is a maple, and that branch is oak." The nearest oak was halfway across the yard, with the sack of straw hanging from one limb, swaying gently in the breeze. Frodo crawled off Sam, passion forgotten, and reached for it. His frown deepened. "This branch has been cut, and the leaves haven't wilted...." his voice trailed away thoughtfully. "Someone threw this." He tossed the branch aside, onto the compost heap. 

"But there's nobody up in the trees to play us a joke," Sam protested, sitting up and scanning the treetops. "And nobody about in the yard; there's no place for anyone to sneak up on us, nor creep away without being seen, neither." 

"Perhaps." Frodo didn't sound convinced, peering about narrowly. "Come on, Sam." He reached down, suddenly businesslike, catching Sam's arm and hauling on it to help him up. "That pony has to go back to Bywater." 

Sam frowned, struggling to adjust to the change, worrying at Frodo's sudden quicksilver mood. 

Frodo swept the yard one last time with his gaze, frowning. "I think we'd better go." Smiling a little, the expression a bit forced, he reached for Sam, clapping him on the back-- and Sam stifled a yelp as Frodo's hand struck the bruise. 

Again Frodo's mood changed, faster than a summer sky, his eyes clouding with concern. "Sam, are you hurt?" 

"It's naught, Mr. Frodo," Sam shrugged a bit, ashamed in spite of himself. 

"I'm afraid I don't believe you." Frodo stepped forward. "Show me." There was nothing of heat in his eyes, only pure distress, but that touched Sam just as deep. He sighed and looked at his toes, fingers stiff and clumsy-- not just from the bandages-- as he worked a few buttons, just enough to drop the shoulder of his shirt to one side as he turned his back towards Frodo. 

"Sam," Mr. Frodo's voice thickened with dismay at the array of bruises on his back-- dark purple and ugly greenish yellow, Sam knew well enough. "When Jolly mentioned a chair, I didn't realize it was true-- I don't see how you can move, much less lift your arm to fight!" 

"It's not so bad as it looks," Sam vowed stoutly; his body was gradually calming, releasing its lust, and he was starting to breathe proper again. "I don't notice it much now that I've stretched it out a bit." 

"You need a nice long soak in hot water," Frodo murmured, dismayed, and reached to let his fingers gently comb fragments of dried leaf out of Sam's curls. "You ought to have had ice on that last night, and it was foolish to let me tumble you about." 

"There's naught to be had this time of year," Sam pointed out unnecessarily. "And it'll mend itself, in time." 

Mr. Frodo shook his head briskly. "Well, in any case, you should rest it for the day. I'll walk along with you to the stable. That should be a good chance to start getting in shape." 

"That's a fine idea, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered him, buttoning up his shirt again. 

They left the yard together, the mystery all but forgotten.


	48. A Table for Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam overhears an unpleasant discussion.

Gossip about Frodo's fight reached Tuckborough and Buckland with winged speed, and predictably brought several of Frodo's closer relations trotting to Bag End in its wake. Mr. Pippin came first, in the late afternoon of the third day after the proclamation, right before dinner. Mr. Merry came sometime just after middle-night of the same evening, if his boasting was to be believed. Fredegar Bolger was due to arrive before noonmeal of the fourth day, which Sam ought to be about making, if he could pull himself away. 

Sam sighed, reckoning he could squeeze in another few minutes before the luncheon had to be cooked. He had naught against Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, not as a rule, but their arrival threw a stick into the cogs, and no mistake. Jolly looked like he knew Sam's mind, standing on the other side of the yard and watching the proceedings wryly, sparing a glance for Sam when he thought he could sneak one past unnoticed. His and Sam's labors this morning had mostly involved chopping wood and stacking it so as to clear a larger portion of the yard for the three gentlehobbits to use as a training area. 

Mr. Bilbo was out watching, standing against the door of the smial with his pipe in his hand. Every now and again he let a silver-grey smoke ring rise to float over the Hill, and his eyes rested on Sam more often than not, so Sam took extra care to keep his expression sunny, refusing to let his jealousy and disappointment show. There wouldn't be no more pleasant tumbling about with Mr. Frodo, not at this rate. Sam couldn't help resenting it, though he knew his master wouldn't have it even if nobody were about, what with his shoulder in such a state and all. 

He fidgeted, reminded of his aching shoulder, rolling it to test its flex. A lark began to call in the branches of the maple, and he picked it out amidst the stirring leaves, its throat swelled and filled with liquid song. Merry and Pippin chattered almost as loudly, rolling linen strips around Mr. Frodo's hands and wrists. Jolly and Pippin worked on Merry in turn. Mr. Bilbo smoked in a slow, methodical way, uncharacteristically quiet. 

"Now, Frodo, let's see how you do." Merry tapped Frodo's hands with his own, bouncing with high spirits. "Aside from that truly regrettable fear of dogs, (I really will have to tell Sam here how you came by that, one day), I remember when you used to be the terror of--" 

"Hush," Frodo admonished him sternly. "That was many years ago." He directed a blow towards Merry's face, half in earnest. Merry too had brought a helm of sorts, a leather and brass affair with more buckles and straps than brass. 

"Not good enough!" Merry chuckled, and caught Mr. Frodo twice as hard with his retaliation as Sam would have dared. Sam winced, but Mr. Frodo bore up, shuffling aside and getting in a good buffet of his own. "You can do better, cousin! You aren't half the milk-toast you let on after you moved here to Hobbiton." 

Frodo smiled, a wicked-looking little expression. "If you're trying to make me angry, so I'll fight like a fool--" 

"I won't try to teach my grandmother how to suck eggs." Merry chuckled and waded in with a savage little flurry of strikes against Frodo's chest, and Frodo danced back, evading all but the first few. "Stand still, there!" 

"Not a chance." Frodo laughed, and lashed out, very nearly catching the back of Merry's heel with his foot. 

"Aha, you've learned a thing or two," Merry jumped back himself. "Lotho won't be as quick as I am." He nodded satisfaction. 

"I've learned more than that," Frodo puffed, and came at Merry with a measured flurry that soon had him scurrying for cover, hiding his face behind his hands more often than not. 

Sam glanced at Jolly, torn between pride and melancholy, only to find that his friend's eyes were not following the contest, but had wandered to the side-yard towards the front of the smial. Sam discovered old Gandalf leaning there on his staff next to the morning-glory trellis-- come out of nowhere, probably drawn by the same tales as Frodo's cousins. Fredegar Bolger stood at his side, and Mr. Fredegar was staring at Merry and Frodo, looking perfectly horrified. 

Sam didn't dislike Mr. Gandalf, quite the opposite in fact, but the wizard's arrival worsened his dark mood. At this rate, all of the Shire and the whole wide world beyond it would move in to Bag End, keeping him from sharing so much as a private glance with his master. 

Mr. Bilbo spoke up at last, perhaps having followed Jolly's and Sam's gazes to find the new visitor. "Gandalf! It's good to see you. I might have guessed this turn of events would bring you out of hiding, if anything would. Wilcome, would you go tend to Mr. Gandalf's horse? There's a good lad. See to its stabling in Bywater, and then trot off to your father's field. I'll have a coin for you later." Bilbo stepped out into the yard and tapped out his pipe. The cloud of discontent lightened on his face, and he beamed at Gandalf, who returned the smile with a small quirk of his lips. 

"Yes, sir, Mr. Bilbo." Jolly touched his cap to Mr. Gandalf as he passed, tipping his head back to meet the wizard's gaze with a friendly look. Sam blinked, wondering when the two of them had made friends; last thing he'd heard, Jolly was half-afraid of Mr. Gandalf, and ducked him if he could, just like most of the rest of the Shire. It must have been back when Sam was burnt, for that was the last time the wizard had been about. 

Frodo and Merry paid no mind, scuffling together instead of fistfighting now-- Frodo tackled Merry and wound him up in a headlock, and Merry hooked his leg behind Frodo's knee so that they went down in a tangle of arms and legs. "Get off my leg!" Merry yelped, cheerful, but the battle was frenzied enough to draw Sam's concern. The flailing tangle of arms and limbs alarmed him; they wanted Frodo healthy enough to face Mr. Lotho in another four days, after all! It bothered him in other ways, as well-- a pang of jealousy stirred in his breast to see Frodo laughing and tangled with his cousin just the way he'd been with Sam only a brace of days ago. 

Sam got up and trotted over, anxious, hovering just outside the fray, and when they paused to breathe, he reached for Mr. Frodo, who caught his arm and lurched upright, leaning heavily against Sam as he struggled to his feet, still laughing. 

"Coward!" Merry crowed, bouncing to his own feet. Sam didn't pause to push Mr. Frodo away before dusting at the grass and straw stuck to his shirt. Mr. Frodo braced an arm around him for balance, working to catch his breath. 

"Samwise, don't you think you'd better go inside and tend the luncheon?" Mr. Bilbo's voice cut through the laughter, sharp with disapproval. "You've spent quite enough time this morning lazing about." 

"Bilbo!" Frodo protested, eyes clouding, a crease forming in his forehead. He stood on his own and turned, but he halted in the manner of one brought up sharp when he met Bilbo's gaze. Bilbo Baggins' eyes snapped with as much annoyance as Sam had ever seen in them; his pleasant face was hard-set, and Mr. Frodo's spine straightened, his whole body tensing. Even Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin stared at Mr. Bilbo, startled into sobriety. 

"Run along, Samwise." Mr. Gandalf's voice was right behind him. "Do as you're told." His tone was gentle. 

"Yes, sir," Sam answered both the wizard and his master, and he scampered indoors, as much to hide his embarrassment as to obey. He'd best be about the lunch, and he'd have to make more food than he'd planned, so he ducked into the pantry to fetch out some extra taters, and a few more of the early apples. 

Sam had to kneel down to haul the dusty, dry bushel basket out from its bin; the taters were kept way in the back of the cellar where it was dark and cool and no light would get in to turn them green or make the eyes sprout. He hunted through the basket for the biggest taters he could find, them as he usually saved for roasting, for both Mr. Fredegar and Mr. Gandalf had hearty appetites, and he hadn't time to waste on peeling a bundle of little ones. 

A patter of feet warned him someone was approaching; Sam seized fast on two of the taters and made to stand up, but the sound of hushed, angry voices stopped him. 

"Don't question my judgment in front of your friends, Frodo lad." Bilbo's voice still held that tight knot of fury. "Samwise was slacking, and you 're well aware of it." 

Sam cowered in his hidden corner-- it was too late to speak, and he'd best not be caught listening, not with Mr. Bilbo in such a foul temper and discussing him besides. 

"You seem to think he should be hauling things about like a carthorse every minute of every day," Frodo hissed back. "You wouldn't work Jolly half as hard." 

"I wouldn't have to make certain young Wilcome was too busy and tired to keep to his place!" Bilbo snapped back. "Frodo, you should know better than to tumble about with the lad! You can't marry him; you couldn't if he were a lass! I don't have to tell you people will talk; you're paying the price for that already. Whenever will you learn to listen to me?" 

"When you speak sense, uncle." Frodo's voice was polite, but his words were more than impertinent. Sam winced. "It was well enough to teach Sam his letters, and to have him as a guest at the table until he turned a tweenager, after all. Why have you changed your mind? His value hasn't changed." 

"I was forced to realize my mistake when Master Hamfast first saw you flaunting yourself at the lad in the orchard," Bilbo hissed. "I thought Sam's time in Tighfield had lessoned the two of you, Frodo! What will it take to make you see, if the shame of fighting Lotho Sackville-Baggins in front of the Shire isn't enough for you?" 

Sam curled into himself trembling, the taters lying on the floor, near forgotten. He savaged his lip with his teeth, wishing he were anywhere but here, hearing what he had no business listening to nohow. 

"You know yourself that Lotho deserves a thrashing, and more. But why are you speaking this way to me of marriage?" Frodo said slowly. "I would marry Sam if he were a girl. What shame would that be?" 

"What?" Bilbo sputtered, speechless with astonishment. "You're a Baggins, not one of Old Noakes's rough brood! You'll marry a Took or a Brandybuck or at worst, a Bracegirdle!" 

"And what if I don't marry at all?" Frodo's voice sounded cool and smooth, like velvet. Sam shook to hear the depth of the anger that lay deep under that quiet tone. 

"Don't be a fool!" Bilbo snapped. "I know full well you haven't the temperament to live a bachelor's life, and to leave yourself without an heir--" 

"You have." Frodo pointed out coolly. "And you have found your heir in spite of it, or perhaps you have. Until today, I had thought you were content with your choices." 

"That's beside the point!" Bilbo shook his finger under Frodo's nose. "Don't pretend to me that you won't have that lad in your bed the moment I--" Bilbo trailed off again, sputtering for words, and redirected himself. 

"Frodo, try to think with your brains instead of thinking with your bottom, boy! Let Sam be. He's been bred and raised to a big family; if the two of you did find enough in common to brave the gossip and stay together, he'd pine and waste away, rattling about this old hole with nobody but you for company. You keep your nose buried in your books all the day, and there's nothing untoward about that, but he won't see it that way, not after the bloom's worn off. 

"That lad wants a family to raise, and you'd best be letting him go back to the Cottons, where he'll find it. It's no secret to anyone in Hobbiton that young Rose has her cap set for him, and she can bear him a smial full of little ones-- and that is one thing, my dear boy, that you most certainly cannot do." The anger seeped out of Bilbo's voice as his tirade lengthened; by the end he was speaking softly, kind and sorrowful. Sam's fists clenched so hard his dirty nails bit into his palms. 

To that Frodo made no answer; he turned and left the pantry silently. 

Mr. Bilbo sighed deeply, mopping his face with his pocket handkerchief, and followed. Sam waited until he had counted a hundred, then fumbled the potatoes and the apples into a basket and crept out quiet as a mouse, scuttling down the long hall to the kitchen. Through its little round window he was relieved to see that Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo had gone back outside after talking. Frodo stood watching Merry and Mr. Fredegar scuffling and tumbling, but his expression said his thoughts were not following what lay before his eyes. 

Mr. Bilbo settled back in his place by the door, sending puffs of smoke into the sky again, watching Frodo closely, and Mr. Gandalf stood next to him, doing much the same. The only one restless was Mr. Pippin; he must have had his fill of fighting, for he ducked out of Sam's sight and Sam could hear his footsteps pattering down the hall as he came inside for a moment. 

Sam made himself start in to work. His trembling hands scrubbed the big smooth taters for frying and he let them dry next to the basin while he laid a salted ham in Mr. Bilbo's biggest iron pot with a bit of water and a few spices. Then on went the lid, and he swung the pot over the coals so the ham would roast up good and hot for the luncheon. He felt numb, watching his hands as though they did not belong to him. They went about their business capably for all their shaking, with efficient speed, as though they did not fully realize how angry the Master of Bag End was with them for wandering where they had no business going-- onto the pale slim body of his heir. 

"I told 'ee so, Sam," his Gaffer would say. He'd been right, it seemed-- at least partly. Well, Andy Roper would have Sam on again at Tighfield, if he was put out of his position here. Sam took an onion from the sideboard and diced it fine, then put it in a pan with butter, and peeled the potatoes, slicing them up to fry. He wiped his face with his sleeve, telling himself it were all the onion, but it weren't. Tighfield was one place he'd no desire to see again, not if he lived as long as the Old Took. 

"D'ye need a hand?" Mr. Pippin slipped into the kitchen, nearly startling Sam out of his wits when his voice came piping up. It was such an offer as he'd made more than once since Mr. Frodo told him how to make his peace with the servants, and often as not Sam would take him up on what he offered, even if he did give Mr. Pippin the easier tasks he had to hand. 

"I've got things going, sir." Sam answered, ashamed to hear the thickness of tears choked up harsh in his voice. "Or near enough." 

"Bilbo's worried about Frodo." Mr. Pippin snagged an early apple off the table, took a bite, and made a face at its sour taste. 

"Those are for roasting with butter and sugar," Sam explained heavily, taking the apple from him and reaching for a paring knife. "I've got them to put on the fire yet, and a pot of greens." The greens lay in the basin ready for washing; he had only to pour the water and rinse them and put them in the pot. He cut the bite out of the apple and tossed it in the scrap bucket. 

"I'll start peeling these." Pippin took the knife from him. "He is, you know." 

"Aye," Sam lowered his eyes. "I reckon that's all there is to it." His voice fell flat, telling the lie. 

A silence fell; Pippin peeled carefully, his tongue caught between his teeth. 

"Make the peeling narrow, Mr. Pippin, and you won't waste as much apple for all that it takes longer to peel one," Sam suggested timidly. 

Mr. Pippin adjusted his knife accordingly, and Sam clucked approval, turning to the greens. They weren't as dirty as they might be; the spring rains thus far had been gentle, and hadn't spattered the dirt up into them the way heavy summer storms would. He dipped and shook, dipped and shook, and then emptied the old water out of the basin and started over with clear. On the fire, the kettle was just coming ready for them, boiling and steaming up the air. 

"Sam...." Mr. Pippin's voice sounded thoughtful. "You know Frodo thinks the world of you." 

Sam's throat threatened to choke up all over again. "Aye," he murmured harshly. "I've no reason to think he doesn't." 

"I thought for a moment he and Mr. Bilbo would go at it hammer and tongs, when you'd gone." Pippin tried a laugh that fell hollow and shattered in the silence. 

Sam kept his head down. Rinse and shake, rinse and shake. Then into the pot so they would cook down and make room for more. Rinse and shake. 

"Frodo said you'd done a day's work in the wood already, and Bilbo said... well, that's not my business to tell, I suppose, and then they went inside, so I couldn't hear them." Pippin considered. "I think he blames you and Jolly for stirring up the Sackville-Bagginses. When the fight's over and Frodo's won, he'll be his old self again." 

Sam closed his eyes on a tear. And if Frodo didn't win.... 

"Sam...." Pippin's voice was soft, careful, but he had a young one's persistence in worrying after matters as he shouldn't, for all that he was shooting up this year. "They won't tell me what the fighting's about. Not even my sister Pearl; she said I was full of sauce and I'd no reason to hear what I'd no need to." 

"I can't be answering you there," Sam mumbled. "You'd best be asking Mr. Frodo." 

Pippin sighed, much put-upon. "I did as soon as I got here yesterday, and all he said to me was that you did just as you should and Mr. Lotho was as near to right as he could be while still being completely wrong!" 

Sam chuckled in spite of himself, a harsh sound in his chest. "Then you'd best be after asking Mr. Merry." 

"Do you think he'll tell?" Pippin's spirits lifted, rising as perennially as the sun. 

"He might, if you don't tell him what Mr. Frodo said first." Sam looked at Pippin then. "But I'll warrant you won't understand." 

Mr. Pippin's eyes snapped at him with honest temper. "I'm not a child!" 

Sam considered that. He was right, or near enough; at Mr. Pippin's age, Nibs Cotton had done a full day's work in the fields and gone for a mug of ale after, just like his father and brothers. 

Sam finished with the greens and carefully poured the water from the basin into the window box, then found a second knife and sat down at Mr. Pippin's side, reaching for a peeled apple, which was already turning brown in the air. He quartered it and cored it and put it in a pot, then took another. "Aye, you're not, sir, but you're not grown yet, if you take my meaning." 

Mr. Pippin glared at him, still peeling. 

"Now, you're more than old enough to handle that knife, and without me hovering about every minute, too," Sam nodded towards Mr. Pippin's hands, feeling his way carefully through words, and wishing they came to him as easily as to Mr. Frodo, and as kind as they came to Jolly. "You've had a pocket knife of your own for years now, I'll warrant, and know how to use it as well as any. But if you wanted to lift one of the boiling kettles off the fire, now, I'd still want to be watching. And if you wanted to lift the big iron pot, I'd have to say you no, for fear you couldn't handle it." 

Mr. Pippin caught his lower lip between his teeth, still a bit sulky. 

"Now, knowing things is a bit like that, too. I daresay...." Sam felt his heart thump, and knew he was out of his depth, but pushed on, stubborn. "I daresay you've known for a time now where colts and foals come from." 

"Of course," Mr. Pippin flashed a scornful look at him. "Everybody knows. I've known for years." 

"Well, that's to the good, for you'll need to know that to begin to understand being grown up." Sam coloured. 

Pippin regarded him, frowning. "If you're trying to tell me you and Frodo are sweet on each other, Sam, I've known that for years, too!" 

Sam sputtered, staring at Pippin with alarm and embarrassment, tears threatening to choke him again. 

"Well," Pippin relented. "I've been sure of it since last winter, anyway." He grinned at Sam, impish. "Is that what all this is about? That's nothing. My sister Pearl, she courts a new suitor every week, so she won't be bored--" 

"Aye," Sam dared to breathe the word, interrupting him. "And that's just where you don't understand, I'm thinking. Even if you know why Mistress Pearl has a new beau so often, you're not being sure why someone else mightn't, I'll warrant." 

Pippin frowned, listening. "Well, no, but I'd suppose it's because you like one another." He fixed Sam with an exasperated glare. 

"That we do," Sam admitted, "But it's hard to move from that to why Mr. Frodo's got to fight Mr. Lotho." Sam shrugged, helpless. "One day you'll understand, when you find a lass to court and marry. You'll have to pick a lass of the right sort, if you take my meaning, or your father won't like it a bit. He might think something about you and her along the same lines as what Mr. Lotho says about Mr. Frodo and me, if you follow." 

"My father says I have to marry," Pippin murmured thoughtfully, frowning. He leaned towards Sam, voice falling. "But I don't want to. I'd rather ride around with Merry and pick apples, and curl up together for the night in a hollow tree and share the first of the cider, like we did last year." He nodded wisely. "Father didn't like that a bit when I said that to him. He says I'm to be The Took, and I've got to carry on the line." He wrinkled his face with distaste. 

"Then it seems you understand a bit of Mr. Frodo's problem after all." Sam closed his lips up tight, worrying he'd said too much. "You'd best keep these words between us, Mr. Pippin. That's part of growing up too, if you follow me." He picked up the pot of apples and poured in butter and sugar, lidding the pot and hanging it over a cool spot on the fire so they wouldn't scorch. 

"I won't," Pippin agreed, bouncing off his chair. 

"Run along with you then, Mr. Pippin, and I'll be about stirring things, as they need." Sam opened the breadbox and got out the heel of a loaf, and spread some of the soft butter over it. "Don't let Mr. Bilbo see you with this, for he'll say it would spoil your luncheon." 

Pippin scampered with the bread-and-butter, and Sam took a deep breath. He felt a bit better for sharing his heart; better and resigned to his lot. If all he could do for Mr. Frodo was set him a fine table, then that's what he'd do, and never mind wanting more.


	49. Fisticuffs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo duels with Lotho Sackville-Baggins.

The appointed day of the duel dawned clear and hot, the first real day of the season to feel like summer, with puffy white clouds sailing majestically through a brassy blue sky. Sam could all but hear the leaves soaking up the heavy sunshine, their soft spring green beginning to turn dark and glossy with vigorous health. He checked the weather anxiously through the smial's single glazed window, which overlooked his family's little plot of beans and taters. He'd hoped for rain-- for anything that might delay the fight-- but none seemed to be forthcoming. 

He sighed, resigned to the inevitable, and lit the fire so his sisters could fry up a bit of sausage to tuck between hunks of bread and cheese. The Cottons were coming by to pick them up in a waggon, and everyone would ride to Michel Delving together-- not just him and Rosie with Frodo, this time. 

All of Hobbiton was sure to turn up, and half the surrounding countryside as well. Sam reckoned there'd be a crowd of Bagginses and their connexions from all the way to Bree, with all the Brandybucks and Tooks that could make the trip thrown in for good measure. 

"Don't wear that rag of a shirt," Daisy scolded him. "That's fit for the garden, that is. Wear summat fittin' your place aside the master." 

Sam flushed, still unable to believe he was Frodo's chosen lieutenant, for all he'd spent the first half of last week teaching Mr. Frodo a bit about using his fists. The last half, ever since he overheard Mr. Bilbo's scornful words, he'd kept out from underfoot as much as possible while still doing enough work for two hobbits-- as of nightfall yesterday, there was naught to do about Bag End but wipe shelves and crocks with a cloth that came away as white and fresh as before he used it. 

Sam went back to his room and changed into his best shirt and weskit, with breeches to match-- clothes he usually kept back for parties. He reckoned he'd rather be setting out to a party than a fight any day of the week, but that's just what he wasn't getting. 

By the time he was done fastening his cuffs and putting on his coat, the Gaffer was up, scolding and chattering according to his custom, and May was giving him a bit of sauce in return. Sam crept past them and out into the yard, standing amidst green grass trimmed close by his own hand. There was dew lying thick on the grass to wet his toes. He glanced up towards Bag End, where nothing was stirring, and tugged at his collar, already feeling the sun beating down uncomfortably on his good coat, which was dark and a bit heavier than everyday wear. 

"Get on about it," the Gaffer chivvied Marigold, who bounced out the door bearing a rickety old wicker luncheon-basket, one of Mr. Bilbo's hand-me-downs. 

"Morning, Sam." She eyed him critically. "You look nervous like it's you as is about to be fightin', not the Master." 

"It ought to be," Sam answered her shortly. "Or rather, it shouldn't ought to have been in the first place, if you take my meaning." He could hear the rumble of a waggon coming up the Road. Squinting into the Sun, he could make out Farmer Cotton's old white mare just cresting the long pull out of Hobbiton and passing into the meadow. "Get back in and tell everyone the Cottons are coming over the rise." He took the luncheon-basket in his sweaty hand. 

When Marigold reappeared, she had Daisy and May and the Gaffer in tow-- the Gaffer clutching a jug of cider and grousing quietly to himself about missing a day's work in the garden. Sam didn't pay him no mind, tugging at his collar and wishing he could open the top button. 

Jolly pulled the horses up sharp as they drew level with Number Three, looking down at Sam from his perch atop the front bench. "Morning, Sam." 

"Morning, Jolly." Sam put the basket in the back amidst a seething mass of Cotton lads and lasses. "Enough room for five more?" 

"Just about," Mother Cotton puffed, hoisting a squirming babe onto her lap. "If we sit friendly-like." 

"Come up here and help me drive, Sam." Jolly invited. 

It would be cooler up front with Jolly, not to mention less dusty. Sam gave his sisters and his old Dad a hand up into the waggon's straw-padded bed and then climbed up to sit next to Jolly, who clucked at the horses and ruffled the reins enough to get them moving. They took the next fork in the Road and wound their way back down to Bywater, then took the turn towards Michel Delving. 

"How's Himself?" Jolly asked quietly, voice hardly rising over the row in the back of the waggon. 

"Set to stand by his word, and as stubborn as the day is long," Sam muttered back. 

"Can he stand his ground, you think?" 

Sam hesitated. "Aye." Perhaps he could. Not against Sam or Jolly, nor most other working hobbits Sam knew, and maybe not even against Mr. Merry, who was lightning quick and didn't lack for clever trickery, but Mr. Lotho wasn't like any of those. He was soft and lazy, and even if he was bigger, it was just possible Mr. Frodo could take him in a fair fight. But if Mr. Lotho didn't fight fair... he chewed his lip, anxious. Fighting fair was just the sort of thing it seemed Lotho Pimple wouldn't do, and that was a fact. 

Sam sighed, wiping his sweaty forehead and wishing the cart could move a little quicker; he wanted a breeze, but there was none to be had. The load was a heavy and a precious one, the mare was old and placid, and they had plenty of time. 

Mr. Frodo hadn't spoke to him much since the morning he took Mr. Bilbo's scolding; he'd been quiet and spent his time with Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin and Mr. Fredegar instead. They'd wrestled and fought and journeyed with him, getting him whipped into shape-- or Merry and Pippin had; Mr. Fredegar mostly sat about taking care of any food left over from the previous meal. 

Sam squinted up into the Sun. It weren't exactly how he'd hoped to pass the week, but at least he'd not had time to brood as he kept himself busy working twice as hard as ever. What with his own wish to seem worth his keep on top of Mr. Bilbo's determination to keep him occupied, he'd hardly let his shirttail touch his backside, and that was a fact. 

Another rumble, lighter and accompanied by a light clipping of hooves, roused him from his reverie, and he nudged Jolly to pull aside as a pony trap passed them, making good time. 

As the morning wore on, they had to pull to the side and stop another half-dozen times to let quicker carts pass, all of them headed the same way. The sun was rising high by the time they came within sight of Michel Delving. Sam hadn't ever seen so many hobbits milling about in one spot: the green seethed so thick with them he could have walked on top of their heads all the way from the center of town to the little brook that meandered along the outskirts of the wide common field-- without ever having to hop or jump. Even the few trees hung thick with youngsters who'd climbed up for a sight of the proceedings, dangling like ripe, laughing fruit from every bough. 

There was no way so many people could get a sight of the fighting, and poor families like the Cottons and the Gamgees had the worst of it, elbowed to the very outer edge of the field, where many of them stood atop the beds of their waggons and shaded their eyes beneath their hands, squinting and stretching for a sight of the action. None of them could see a thing, but Sam knew that wasn't no matter. Every one of them, or near enough, would tell the tale of the fight the next day just as though they'd been right up front to watch it happen from the very first row. 

Jolly pulled the cart over to a likely-looking spot on the roadside, and he caught Sam's eye. "Mam won't be needing me till we set out home, I reckon, or at least it seems you might need me more," Jolly looked at Sam, speculative. "It'll take the two of us to get you through that crowd, I'll warrant." 

"Where do you reckon we ought to make for?" Sam was frankly daunted by the prospect. He hadn't had a chance to ask Mr. Frodo where he'd be wanted, seeing as how Mr. Bilbo had stuck so close alongside him all through the week. 

"Don't you know?" Jolly laughed. "Well, right where they're thickest, I'll warrant. Out front of the Mayor's office, mayhap." 

They set forth with considerable determination, ignoring minor obstacles like sharp words and stepped-on toes, along with the occasional thump of an old gammer's elbow to Sam's ribs as they eased past her. By the time they made it to the green they were puffing and tired, wiping sweat, but still intact, for the most part. 

Once they were there, it was easy enough to pick out where to go-- Mr. Gandalf stood head and shoulders above anybody else, standing next to Mr. Bilbo's pony carriage. Mr. Bilbo sat on the driver's bench under its tidy awning, clad in his best brocade waistcoat and looking severe. 

Sam spied Mr. Frodo waiting next to the carriage, Pippin and Merry at his side offering competing advice in shrill tones. Sam pushed through the last few onlookers, earning a sharp word or two and one solid thump across his arm from an umbrella, but he didn't mind it; his eyes were all for his master. Frodo glanced up at Sam, the worry on his face softening to welcome. "I was afraid you couldn't make it through the crowd, Sam. We came along before dawn; none of us could sleep, it seems." 

Sam nodded; he hadn't slept so well either, what with worrying and all. "Well, I'm here," he said unnecessarily but stoutly, and stepped forward, uncomfortably conscious of Mr. Bilbo's flat stare. 

"That's all we were waiting for," Pippin chirped up. "Lotho's here already, and Ted." He nodded across the Road to the little knot that made up Lotho's party. Lotho blustered back and forth between his supporters and his seconds with his bare chest puffed out, wasting his energy-- more fool he. 

Sam's mouth curled in a humorless smile. Good; let him prance about. They'd just see whether he was fit to do any strutting after. 

Mayor Whitfoot looked to them and received Frodo's determined nod in return; he quickly set shirriffs to running stray hobbits out of the roped square where the fight was to take place. "Clear the way!" The shout heralded three stout fellows bearing yokes and buckets; three were set in either corner. 

Sam pushed the rope down and Mr. Frodo climbed across it, then Sam followed; when he looked up, Mr. Lotho was struggling over the rope with rather less grace. 

They faced off across the square, and Sam watched with alarm as Mr. Frodo unfastened his shirt-- short, square fingers with nails bitten right to the quick, flicking buttons open as calmly as though he were in his own bedroom back up at Bag End, not in the middle of a field in Michel Delving with what seemed half the Shire looking on. 

Sam flushed; this was something Mr. Frodo didn't do very often, not even in the privacy of Bag End; he near never unbuttoned his shirt in front of Sam, but here, in the light, he was revealed for all to see. 

His chest was narrow and very pale, nipples dark pink like the secret hollow of a shell from the faraway seaside. He looked unbearably fragile, but there were hints of sinew in his narrow wrists and arms, unexpected, and his hands were strong. Sam judged him lithe and quick, perhaps even more so than he'd hoped in comparison to Lotho. A trail of sweat gleamed on Mr. Frodo's ribs, the only evidence of his nerves; he stood slim and upright, waiting for the Mayor's signal. 

By contrast, Mr. Lotho's body was built heavy-- he had a belly that stuck out over his belt courtesy of too many mugs of beer at too many taverns, and ample hobbit mealtimes without enough walking. 

Sam nodded to himself, grimly satisfied; Lotho would be slow and quick to tire. He didn't cut much of a figure next to Frodo, either, not in Sam's opinion-- without his shirt on, he showed how well he'd earned his nickname: blemishes scarred his skin, angry red and fading purple, scattered amidst a few wisps of greasy hair on his chest and across his shoulders. His white skin looked pasty to Sam's eyes; it had none of the ivory-carved perfection of Frodo's. 

However, Lotho's shoulders were wider than Frodo's, and he had a certain virtue of strength gained just by moving his greater bulk through the day. His thighs had plenty of sturdy muscle on them, and his fists had a worrisome bulk, at least to Sam's eye. 

Sam bit his tongue, smothering a belated plea for his master to see reason. It wouldn't do no good, judging from the hard set of Frodo's jaw. It wouldn't be proper to talk up in front of all these people nohow; it would just make the rumor mill turn the faster. Besides, over there stood Mr. Bilbo himself, and if he had naught to say about the situation, then it weren't for the likes of Sam Gamgee to go putting himself forward, be he the cause of the fight or be he no. 

Mr. Frodo tossed his shirt to Sam to hold and Sam smoothed it fretfully, then passed it to Mr. Merry and caught Ted Sandyman's eye, setting a warning expression on his face. It'd be just like that Ted to try to cause mischief, and Sam weren't having none of it. 

Mayor Whitfoot raised his arms, commanding silence, and the forwardmost hobbits let their voices fall to a hum; it was the best it seemed he was getting, and he took advantage of it. 

"This duel by fisticuffs will begin when I drop my kerchief and go till one of you begs mercy or can't get up to fight. Nobody pass over the rope; seconds can't step in until both fighters agree to rest." He looked about the crowd, almost seeming reluctant to start the fight, and Sam followed his gaze as it passed over dozens, if not hundreds, of hobbits eager for a show. 

There was also a small and unexpected party of dwarves in the throng, not that much taller than the tallest hobbits but hooded and more than a bit conspicuous, what with their long grey beards poking out. They weren't the only foreign folk, neither. Old Mr. Gandalf had stepped up to the rope and stood towering above the rest of the assembly, leaning on his staff with his keen eyes glinting under the brim of his hat. Mr. Bilbo had come down off the cart and stood next to him, rocking back and forth on his heels with his face set in a fine expression of annoyed disapproval. 

Sam turned his eyes away from them barely in time to see the red kerchief fall fluttering towards the dusty grass. With a growl, Mr. Lotho set his heels and lunged at Frodo. 

Frodo danced aside lightly, apparently unperturbed, and Lotho straightened. His eyes narrowed as he turned to face Frodo again. 

"Fisticuffs means fisticuffs," the Mayor warned. "Not wrestling." His voice was nearly lost in the hum of speculation from the excited hobbits-- like a swarm of angry, breathless bees, a sound Sam knew all too well. He could hear the sound of wagers being taken, too. 

Lotho's hands flexed, his face setting with annoyance. He squared his feet. Sam grimaced. Lotho's next move would be smarter. 

Sure enough, Lotho began to circle, moving around Frodo towards the right. Frodo turned lightly, watching him, eyes intent. He trampled the kerchief and kept moving, watching for an opening but apparently not finding one. Finally he stopped and raised his fists, squaring his body. Frodo mirrored him, face calm. 

The crowd growled again, restless, in danger of growing bored. 

"Call off the duel now, or I'll break that pretty face of yours," Lotho snarled, too quietly for more than the first rank or so to hear him. 

"If you want to forego the duel, you're perfectly welcome to concede," Frodo replied, unruffled as a frozen pond in winter. Sam sucked a sharp breath at the taunt. Lotho's fist flew to answer and Frodo ducked aside. It clipped his hands, but didn't harm him. 

"Stand still, you." 

Frodo ignored both the jibe and the inevitable mutter from the crowd. Lotho's fist darted out again to buffet Frodo's defenses. Frodo staggered a little, making Sam's heart lurch halfway into his stomach. Encouraged, Lotho struck again. One, two! His heavy fists battered at Frodo's raised hands, making him stagger, leading him. The exchange pulled his hands away from his body, leaving a beautiful, tempting hole. Just a little more, just a-- 

Sam clenched his fists in worry even as Frodo lashed out. He caught Lotho a good blow under the left eye and danced back, guard raised. Lotho snarled and lunged at Frodo. 

The scuffle flurried so fast Sam couldn't make it out. The Mayor shouted even as Frodo fell, tangled with his heavier cousin. Sam heard himself moan with worry, wringing his hands as the tangled thrashing mass of limbs tumbled over twice in the grass. They came to a stop with Frodo on the bottom, his belly flat against the dirt, pinned too tight to escape. But no; his head suddenly snapped back. Lotho gave a howl, toppling off and clutching at his face. 

The world, which had seemed to Sam as though it stopped tight to hold its breath, started up again. 

Mr. Frodo bounced up. His chest and belly were scratched and his trousers filthy, but aside from the scratches and a trickle of blood under his ear, he didn't seem hurt none. 

The Mayor surged forward, puffing, and his florid, scowling face swung to regard Mr. Lotho. "Are you giving up, or have you got fight left in you yet?" 

"He don't give up!" Ted yelled from the sideline. "I call for a rest!" 

Sam hesitated, waiting for Frodo's judgment on the matter. Frodo nodded and stepped back, raising a hand to the back of his neck to rub off dirt and sweat and a drop or two of Lotho's blood. The trampling of the crowd through the morning had wallowed down the grass, leaving a good deal of dust exposed, and he was wearing his share of it. 

Sam vaulted the rope. "Jolly, bring the water." The crowd chattered so loud he despaired of being heard-- laughter and more wagering. 

Jolly must have seen what was needed, though, for he hoisted up a bucket and Sam took it, glad of the dipper that hung over its brim. Hastily he lifted it for his master. 

"I thought he had me," Frodo panted, one hand rubbing gingerly at the crown of his head. He drank thirstily, gulping three swallows and pouring two over himself. Sam was so worried he couldn't spare the attention for its shimmer and sparkle on Frodo's fair skin. 

"That's just what you'll have to watch out for," Sam would have wrung his hands if they weren't busy with the bucket. "It's pure luck you caught him with your head. He wasn't wary, but he will be the next time." 

Frodo nodded, squinting up at the Sun, and shook himself a little, his jaw firming. "This time he'll be angry." 

Dropping the dipper back in to the bucket, Frodo stepped away from Sam to meet Lotho. He advanced wrathfully, his face bloodstained and his hands knotted in fists. Sam winced. He'd thought sure it would be the end of the fight for that Pimple to see the sight of his own blood, but he'd thought wrong. It looked like there was a bit of grit to the fool after all. 

Frodo went to meet him, lifting his fists, and Sam withdrew himself and the bucket behind the rope quickly so he wouldn't miss anything. A good thing he did-- Mr. Lotho was angry, moving fast and purposeful. He didn't pause none, but swung a wide blow at Frodo like he was cutting hay. It landed hard enough to drive one of Frodo's arms to the side and let Lotho put his left fist straight through. He caught Frodo's jaw solid and hard, driving him up onto his tiptoes. 

Sam's breath caught in his throat as Frodo teetered on the verge of going over backwards. His pained grunt broke the sudden stillness, but he settled on his feet, shaking his head behind his hands to clear it. 

Lotho waded in again, forcing him back with a flurry of blows to the chest and belly. They thumped dully against Frodo's flesh and he folded up like a country stile, bending nearly double. 

Sam didn't have to hear Mr. Bilbo's low sound of despair, which came near enough to his own. He quivered, frantic with worry. The coarse rope bit his hands, he'd gripped it so hard. "Mr. Frodo, jump back!" 

Frodo never heard him, but Lotho pressed forward just a bit too fast. His toe caught and stubbed on a stone, stopping his advance just long enough for him to spit an irritated oath. Frodo backed away hastily, forcing himself upright again. 

Jolly's reassuring hand settled on Sam's shoulder, but he ignored it. His breath felt so tight in his chest he might as well have been fighting Lotho himself. 

Frodo was hurt now, winded and dazed. Lotho pressed his advantage, but somehow he managed to keep a half-step ahead of the onslaught. He staggered back, blocking blows without offering any in return. 

Sam bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. Frodo already needed a rest and a bit more water, but if he called for one now, they'd never wear Lotho down. And their plan was starting to work; Lotho wasn't moving quite so fast and he was panting heavily, his mouth open. Even better, Frodo was recovering. His feet moved a little faster each time he dodged, though he was still on the run. 

The hobbits tensed and the racket swelled; Sam could barely make out Mr. Pippin's shrill yelps for all that he was just a few steps away. Mr. Merry was yelling too, pantomiming punch combinations, but the shouting swallowed his advice. 

"'Ee got no sense at all, Sam!" The Gaffer's voice suddenly penetrated to him, sharp with ire. "That Sandyman, now, he's give his Mr. Lotho a bit of iron to hide in his fist during that rest, and that's how he's hitting as hard as he is! Ain't 'ee been watching?!" 

Sam's eyes darted frantically to find Sandyman. Sure enough, there he stood on his side of the ropes with his hands in his pockets and a little crooked smile on his face. His breeches hung low on his hips, sagging at the pockets. He never moved a bit even as Mr. Lotho's friends and relations went mad around him, capering about and punching air with their fists as Lotho scored another blow that sent Frodo reeling, crimson staining his face from a cut lip. 

A red haze of fury slid across Sam's vision. His hands tightened on the rope as he made ready to launch himself across, but his Gaffer's hand held him fast. "Hal and Ham showed up after 'ee left and I've sent 'em to have a word with that Ted. Just 'ee bide quiet, Sam, and be here for Himself. He'll be needing 'ee." 

Sam spied Hal and Ham shoving their way around the square towards Sandyman, but there weren't no time to wait for them. Mr. Lotho kept swinging away hammer and tongs at Mr. Frodo. Frodo seemed to have forgot all his lessons in trickery and just kept stubborning it out. He kept on backing away, but that didn't do no good. 

There weren't no telling when Lotho might land a telling blow. He wound up his left hand, jabbing it in sharp-- a feint, Sam was sure. It set up for a nasty punch with his right, and there stood Frodo, wide open and too dazed to do aught about it. 

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam shrilled uselessly, but for some miracle it seemed Frodo heard him. His head swung around just in time to miss the worst of a punch so savage it pulled Lotho near off his feet. Blinking when Lotho jostled him, Frodo caught an ankle behind his cousin's and twisted, but Lotho clutched at him and dragged him down. The bit of metal fell to earth, vanishing in a puff of dust, but Frodo was down and caught. 

Sam's heart hammered in his throat; everything happened at once. Hal and Ham seized Ted. Frodo and Lotho flopped in the dust like dying fish. The crowd shrieked, Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin's voices like to deafening Sam. Lotho gave a howl, but then Frodo was free, rolling onto his knees and swaying there, looking too exhausted to get up. 

The breeze stirred and dust sifted away to reveal Lotho writhing on the dirt, clutching his tender parts. The crowd's excited roar fell to an awed hush. 

"Now see here, Ted Sandyman!" Ham blustered into the quiet. "The mayor will be wanting to see this!" 

"Mr. Lotho's not for fighting any more." Wil Whitfoot judged, rolling Lotho onto his back. There he stayed, curled up around himself like a roly-poly bug. "Mr. Frodo's given him a bit of summat to think about." 

The roar of the crowd exploded afresh, loud as thunder, and Sam couldn't hear no more. He bulled his way forward as half the Shire surged over the ropes, not much caring who he shoved aside. He had to get to his master. 

Mr. Frodo still knelt on the trampled turf, wiping gingerly at the corner of his split lip. Sam slid a hand under each of his arms, hoisting him up on to his feet. Frodo leaned on him, legs shaky, but his eyes were fixed on the Mayor. 

Wil hadn't announced the outcome yet; he stood at the center of a circle of shouting hobbits. Most of them were young Sackville-Bagginses and their connexions, and most were shouting in his face. 

"Now see here, that's a forfeit!" Sam didn't recognize the loudest of the arguing lads; it weren't Ted, but one of Mr. Lotho's relations, one of the Sackville lads. "Frodo used a wrestling move, and you said yourself those weren't allowed." 

"He wasn't the first to cheat, I'll warrant." The Mayor turned his head over towards Hal and Ham, who were trying to drag Ted forward. "Here now, step back, you!" At his command, a clear circle slowly formed around the center of the action. Shirriffs helped, pushing and shoving the curious hobbits back. 

Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin weren't far behind Sam, Pippin carrying Frodo's shirt and Merry the water bucket. "Here, Sam, Frodo needs a drink," Pippin shrilled, and Sam stepped back to yield them his place. 

As he did, his foot fell on something sharp. He looked down into the dust, eyes narrowing. "Here now, here's what we're after," Sam raised his voice over the others'. "I saw that Mr. Lotho drop it when he fell." 

"Here's what?" Alert, the Mayor stepped forward watched Sam stoop to pick up the bit of metal-- part of a pin like as you'd use to hitch two waggons together, nice and round but broke off short-- just made to fit inside a fist. 

"And there's more to match, inside Ted Sandyman's pockets!" Hal shook Ted's arm, and he rattled to prove it, making a metallic sound too heavy for coins. 

"Check Mr. Lotho's pockets too," the mayor told off two Shirriffs right sharp. 

They knelt in the dust and went prospecting; Mr. Lotho groaned, still hurting bad enough not to pay them any mind. "Here's another!" Robin Smallburrow held it up. "It was in his left breeches pocket." 

"What say you to that?" Wil Whitfoot eyed the Sackville cousins, who immediately lost a great deal of their bluster. "I say it looks like more of a forfeit than wrestling, and that's a fact!" 

The Sackville lads put their eyes on their toes, and one by one they found an excuse to be elsewhere. After a moment only Ted Sandyman was left, and when Hal and Ham let go his arms, he sank down to sit in the dust beside Mr. Lotho, sullen-faced. 

Satisfied, the major raised his hands to silence the crowd, then raised his voice to match. "There'll be no forfeit-- Mr. Frodo wins fair and square! Clear off home now-- there's no more to see!" 

Sam sighed with relief, eyes seeking Mr. Frodo-- who was the center of a knot of concerned relations. Mr. Bilbo had a pocket-handkerchief tucked over his finger, thinking nothing of its white silk and fine monogram, dabbing at the blood that stained Frodo's lip. Frodo's eyes traveled over his shoulder, seeking; they locked on Sam for a single moment before heads came between them. When the way cleared, Bilbo and Merry and Pippin had turned Frodo away, guiding him towards the carriage with Merry's arm about his waist. 

"Come along, Sam." Jolly's voice was gentle. "They'll stay at the inn, like as not. He'll have a bath and beer and a good bed. My da put a drop of cider in the back of our wagon; we'd best get back there before it gets drunk up." 

Sam felt a sharp hollow pain spread through his chest; Jolly was right. He'd best be-- 

"There you are, Samwise. Don't dawdle." Gandalf's long, bushy brows rendered his expression fierce to go with the impatient words, but his tone was kind, and his hand was light on Sam's shoulder. 

"Mr. Gandalf, I couldn't...." Sam's voice trailed away. He flicked an anxious glance to Jolly anyhow, worried that he'd be hurt if Sam left him alone. 

"Nonsense. Come along." Gandalf's hand tightened warmly, reassuring. "You'll be needed." 

Jolly gave Sam a wry smile. "You be off, Sam. I'll tell the Gaffer you've gone." 

Sam nodded and took a deep breath, then followed Mr. Gandalf away towards Mr. Bilbo's carriage.


	50. Waymeet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way home from Michel Delving, the dueling party stops at an inn.

It was later when they left than Sam would have thought-- drawing near tea-time, in fact. The Sun baked down fiercely for the first hour or so as they drove east, its heat like a weight on the crown of Sam's head. He shifted the reins, glad of the carriage's speed and its height; it was larger than he was accustomed to driving, but its height meant he missed the worst of the road dust and its speed meant there was a bit of breeze to fan his face as they clipped along. 

The quiet of the journey gave him quite a bit of time for thinking. Like as not, Sam's family and the Cottons had lingered a bit at one of the public houses in Michel Delving, or failing that found a bit of shade next to a stream, and would come on when the Sun passed its height. They'd miss the worst of the heat that way, and some of the dust would settle. They wouldn't get home till middle-night or after. It would have been a longer ride, and still plenty hot for much of it, but he missed Jolly's conversation. 

He occupied himself instead with worrying about Mr. Frodo. He'd taken some nasty knocks, and nobody had tended him proper, aside from Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin holding the bucket while he washed his face and chest before putting his shirt back on. He'd be uncomfortably hot cooped up in the carriage; that was certain, and the Road wouldn't be kind to his bruises for all of Sam's efforts to pick a smooth path. 

As the Sun began to sink, Sam spared a glance at Mr. Gandalf, who sat next to him, too tall to fit inside the closed seats, Sam reckoned. It was kind of him to say Sam was needed, when he'd have been riding up here anyhow and could have handled the ponies himself. 

Mr. Gandalf pulled out its pipe and filled its bowl, then lit it so quick Sam couldn't see how, shielding the flame behind his wide palm. He drew on the pipe and let the smoke escape through his nostrils. Its sweet scent was quickly lost on the breeze that eddied past them. "You and I have the best of the journey," he judged comfortably. "It's sure to be dreadfully stuffy inside the coach." 

"Aye, I'm sure it is, what with five hobbits inside and one of them Mr. Fredegar." Sam relaxed a bit. Mr. Gandalf sounded quite content to be sitting up here with him. "I have to say, I'm right glad that's over." 

"I daresay." Gandalf puffed again, a long inhale and a slow exhale. "Fighting is an ugly business." 

"That it is, and I wish I hadn't never raised a fist against that Sandyman," Sam shook his head. "It weren't right, Mr. Frodo having to fight on account of me." 

"It was regrettable, certainly." Gandalf eyed Sam under the shady brim of his hat. "We are fortunate that it ended as it did." 

"He might have been hurt bad." Sam squirmed. "I couldn't live with myself if he was, and that's a fact." He shut his mouth, flushing a bit, but Mr. Gandalf knew what was about if anyone did, having seen that poem and all. "I won't let no t--" Sam swallowed what he meant to say; it weren't his place to call Mr. Lotho a tomfool. "--nobody make me that angry no more." 

"Sometimes it is better to fight than not." Gandalf looked at him soberly. "But you should think carefully and weigh the causes and the risks before fighting. If you do that and make your choice to fight from need and not from anger, you will be a wiser hobbit than most." 

"Like Mr. Frodo," Sam mused aloud, and watched the corners of Mr. Gandalf's eyes crinkle with approval. 

The road widened just then, low turf-covered mounds springing up on either side, letting Sam know they'd finally reached Waymeet. They'd not made time as well as it seemed, mayhap. He clucked to the horses to slow them. Lads and lasses were at play in front of their holes, scampering back and forth across the Road. It wouldn't do to run any of them over. The roses were just coming into blossom; graceful canes arched over fencerows and dropped ivory-pink petals or blood-red petals in the way. Bees buzzed tirelessly, visiting flowers and droning off to the hive. 

A mother frowned at Sam and drew her little children close, for all the world like a hen gathering her chicks under her wing. She scuttled them inside with a sharp frown for the carriage. Sam blinked surprise, then realized it must be meant for Mr. Gandalf sitting beside him. The wizard looked serene for all of it, puffing peacefully at his pipe and taking no notice. 

"Samwise, take the turn towards Tuckborough. We'll spend the evening at the Blue Goose." 

"Yes, sir." They rattled into town, drawing not a few eyes, and into the yard at the inn. Sam hopped down and immediately busied himself helping the ostler and his lads with the team while Mr. Bilbo and the gentlehobbits got out of the carriage and went inside with Mr. Gandalf. 

"We're booked up so there's hardly a stall to be had; the inn will be that full tonight. We've all heard of the doings in Michel Delving, but you're the first carriage to come back through, so I've not had a word of who won the duel. I'll warrant you know!" The lad at Sam's elbow had a sharp accent not dissimilar to Mr. Pippin's, but with a more comfortable sound of country in his words. "Was it a hard fight?" 

"Mr. Frodo won," Sam said shortly, remembering Gandalf's sober tone and not sure of himself with a stranger-- he'd heard of queer doings around Tuckborough, and you never knew what sort of folk might be waiting once you left Hobbiton. 

"I daresay there'll be plenty of ale for you, if you'll share the tale." The stable-boy smiled, friendly as could be, and he led Sam off towards the stables, each of them with one of the ponies in tow. Of course he was friendly, Sam reckoned, wanting Sam's news and all, but Sam mistrusted such friendliness as came along with wanting something. 

"Maybe after a bite of supper." Sam glanced towards the inn, ill at ease. He hadn't had no word with Mr. Frodo since the fight ended; for all of this, he might as well have gone home with his own family! 

The ostler, a nimble old fellow with an unkempt shock of steel-grey hair, greeted the lads at the stable door, pointing them towards a pair of wide, clean stalls with one blunt finger. He spared a word for Sam. "Go in to the kitchen and say you're with Master Peregrin's party, and you'll be fed. Then come back out-- the lads will be dicing in the hayloft tonight, and we'll have a barrel of beer. We'd look on it kindly if you'll share your tale!" 

Sam opened his mouth to decline politely, but one of the maidservants from the inn interrupted. "I've come for Mr. Baggins's body servant. He's wanted in his master's rooms straight away." 

"Begging your pardon." The old hobbit's familiar tone turned respectful. "I didn't know as you'd be called for." He pulled the reins out of Sam's hand and led the pony into the stables himself. Sam followed the lass, his heart suddenly thumping and rising into his mouth. 

She led him in to a quiet common room filled with the scent of roasting meat and savory stew. Every low wooden table was ready-laid with plates and mugs and bowls, with a maid setting out well-worn knives and spoons and forks at each place. Another carriage came rattling in even as they crossed between the tables, spilling a load of rowdy Brandybucks into the courtyard outside the thick-glazed window. Sam guessed it wouldn't be long before the inn was full to bursting, and the stables too. 

They entered a long hall lit by low-turned oil lamps, and she conducted him down its length towards a set of doors that led to rooms which Sam knew must be cut back into the low chalky hill rather than framed in wood, like the majority of the rooms at the inn. 

"Sam, you're here!" Mr. Pippin popped through one. "Frodo isn't feeling well; he's lying down. It was a bit close inside the carriage, and he's worn out." 

"I'll fetch water; there's bound to be a well." Sam set out after the serving lass and made her show him; he drew water and after a moment's thought stripped off his weskit and draped it over the pail. More carriages were arriving, and the air was thick with dust. He hurried back inside, unbalanced by his load, and replaced his weskit quickly, then tapped at the door where Mr. Pippin had appeared. 

"In here." The next door opened, and Mr. Bilbo peered out. His voice was sharp, like he knew it was Sam-- sharp like it had been for Sam lately, and unlike it ever had been before. Sam scurried in with the pail and put it down next to the bed, where Mr. Frodo lay with his shirt open and eyes closed. 

The beating he'd taken showed more now than before; the red spots Lotho's fists left on his fair features had purpled and swollen. To Sam's eye his lip looked the worst, cut and puffy, but he'd taken a shiner from another blow, and it had turned all the colors of the rainbow. 

"He needs ice, but there's none to be had in the Shire until Winterfilth," Bilbo fussed, dipping and wringing a cloth. Frodo sighed, sounding much put-upon, and submitted to the coddling with ill grace. 

"He'll be fine, Bilbo." Gandalf sat in a corner, his unlit pipe between his old gnarled hands. 

"My da swears by putting raw meat on a black eye, if you can get it," Sam murmured, diffident. "I can go out to the kitchens for a bit of steak, Mr. Bilbo sir." 

"Get to it." Bilbo's curt words raised both Frodo's eyelids and Gandalf's brows. The wizard's fingers went still where they had been busy rubbing at a burr on the clay bowl of the pipe. 

"Bilbo." Gandalf's voice rumbled stern; his long bushy brows shaded his eyes, which gleamed in the lamplight. Sam scuttled, not wanting to listen if Mr. Gandalf had a mind to chide the master. Mr. Bilbo was right, anyhow; it was Sam's fault Mr. Frodo was hurt, and he was ashamed of his part in the matter. 

When he come back with a bit of gristly steak from the kitchen scraps as were meant from the dogs; Mr. Bilbo was gone and Mr. Frodo was sitting up, his face pinched with worry, and he was speaking low to the wizard. 

"I've never seen him like this. I almost think--" Frodo fell silent as Sam stepped inside the door. "Sam, thank you." He had a look at Sam's messy handful, wrinkling his nose a bit, but he let Sam apply the meat to his bruised face anyhow. 

"Is there aught more I can do?" Sam fidgeted, anxious and miserable; it seemed Mr. Bilbo had left Mr. Frodo's room in a huff, and that was like Sam's world might end. He'd no notion how to act with the master so angry with him, and that was a fact. 

"Bring us back a tray of supper, and be sure there's enough for yourself as well, plus a pitcher of beer." Mr. Gandalf put a coin in Sam's hand. "The others will be joining the company. Run along, now." Sam did, grateful for having something useful to do and wondering right keen what Mr. Frodo thought about Mr. Bilbo-- that was another worry of Frodo's as was Sam's fault, seemingly. 

He could see the common room through the round portal at the end of the hall, and Mr. Bilbo sitting near the fire with a mug and a thunderous expression. Mr. Merry and Mr. Fredegar sat meekly one on either side of him, looking like they wished he was anywhere else, while Mr. Pippin threaded his precarious way towards the table, carrying four mugs of ale. 

Just as he would have ducked into the kitchens, a sudden commotion drew Sam's interest and he paused, tucking himself into a shadowed niche in a corner of the hall. The hinges of the outer door squealed and the door flew open with such enthusiasm it banged against the wall, rattling on its hinges. From out of the westering sun, six figures strode inside, bending their necks to pass through the door and throwing back their hoods as they straightened: dwarves. 

The leader, a stout dwarf with more silver than brown in his beard, squinted about the common room suspiciously before his leathery face brightened. "Bilbo Baggins, as I live and breathe!" The old dwarf pointed a thick, stubby finger at his table. "You went on so fast we lost you, but I wagered we'd find you at the first good inn on the Road!" 

Bilbo brightened immediately, jumping up and pulling chairs towards his table. "Glóin, my old friend. May your beard grow ever longer! What did you wager and with whom? I'll stand the loser to its equal in ale." 

"None would take my wager; we know you too well!" Glóin clapped Bilbo's shoulder. "But you'll stand us all to a mug of ale anyhow, for all the pains I took to keep you safe upon our journey! And then we shall do the same for you." 

"I will," Bilbo laughed. "Have all your fellows come and sit!" 

Relieved at his master's renewed good spirits, Sam ducked into the kitchen and asked for a tray, then watched the lasses fill it to his satisfaction. Mr. Frodo would need more than just beer, so Sam had the lasses add milk as well, along with stew and hot bread and butter and vegetables fresh from the pot. It took three trays to fit three suppers on, and two lasses trotted down the hall before Sam. They hastily set up a board in Mr. Frodo's room and put the trays down before bowing their way out. Mr. Frodo lay as though sleeping with the coverlet pulled up to his chin and his back turned to the room, and Mr. Gandalf sat quietly while they worked. He'd never lit his pipe, for all his fiddling with it. He looked more careworn than usual, Sam thought, troubled by Mr. Bilbo's temper, no doubt. 

"They've gone, Frodo." Gandalf reached for the pitcher of beer and his mug, scooting himself along the floor to sit under the board. Being hobbit-sized, it very conveniently reached just to his chest. 

"Good." Frodo sounded calm and strong, but he moved stiffly as he worked to sit up. Sam hastened over to help and took the bit of meat, grimacing at it. He laid it to the side, then wiped his hands. With nothing left to do, he fidgeted at Mr. Frodo's side. 

"I can feed myself, Sam. Sit down and eat." Frodo sounded normal, quite at ease. "I'm glad Gandalf found you; I took my eyes away and when I looked back all there was to see was a swarm of hobbits." 

"Aye, I'm glad too." Sam took a piece of the hot crusty bread and smeared it with good yellow butter. He didn't quite dare sit at the board with his master and the wizard, but he sat down on the corner of the hearth to nibble his portion. "There's dwarves in the common room, sir; they just arrived. Mr. Bilbo knows them from his trip-- I heard him say one was Glóin." 

Gandalf brightened. "They caught us up then-- excellent. I was surprised that he wanted to leave so quickly, and without them." 

"He was afraid Lobelia would pop up from nowhere with her umbrella and give him worse than Lotho gave me," Frodo hazarded, and Sam nearly choked on his bread-and-butter, the laugh rose up in him that quick. 

Gandalf cast him a quick, considering look from under his brows. "I think I'll join them in the common room. I don't often meet dwarves of Durin's kin; I'm anxious for a chance to speak with Glóin at length. It may be he has heard news of Balin." He picked up his bowl and filled his mug with the last of the beer from the pitcher and let himself out, bending almost double to go through the door, then turned about, something very like a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I daresay he will leave the two of you quite alone for the rest of the evening." 

Sam turned as red as a garden beet and looked at his toes. Frodo chuckled as Gandalf swung the door shut and the echo of his footsteps receded down the hall. 

"Come sit by me, Sam, and eat." Frodo patted the bed next to him. "There's plenty for two." 

Sam hesitated, then did as Frodo bade him, shyly settling on the mattress. It dipped under their weight and Frodo scooted close, his thigh pressing Sam's. Warmth flurried through Sam, leaving a pleasant tingle in its wake, and he reminded himself sternly that his master was in no condition to do aught about the two of them being alone, what with that cut lip swollen up as large as a pigeon's egg on one side. 

"You gave that Lotho a right walloping," Sam murmured, reaching for a the ladle. He felt the thick inadequacy of the worst on his tongue, flat from the weight of what he didn't know how to say. 

Frodo laughed ruefully. "Not nearly as good as he gave to me-- but better than I had a right to expect, I suppose." 

"You gave him a few to think about, and he'll be feeling them right about now-- and what's more, you did it with your own fists, and not with hitch-pins." Sam set his jaw. "That Ted Sandyman, he ain't fit to spit on, and that's a fact, sir. If I had a choice, I wouldn't put any more business in his way." 

"No, but we can hardly haul the entire Hobbiton harvest and have it milled in Frogmorton." Frodo buttered a slice of bread carefully. "Bilbo and I had that out already." His voice fell, confidential. "All we can do is watch him to see he doesn't sift bran meal in with the flour, and to be sure he doesn't put his thumb on the scales." 

"Most folk around Hobbiton know that already from doing business with his father," Sam snorted. The stew was thick and hearty, if a little too hot to be at its most enjoyable in this sort of weather. Sam polished his bowl with the crust off his bread and helped himself to vegetables-- steaming in their bowls, the peas and carrots were near as good as what could be had back home, only done a little too soft for Sam's taste. There were mushrooms, too, but Sam let Mr. Frodo have the lion's share of those. He poured himself a mug of fresh milk and drank to wash down his supper, aware of Frodo's pensive mood and his eyes following Sam. 

"You've been very busy lately." The words were soft, and delicate, almost careful. 

Sam flushed, setting aside his empty mug. "There's been that much as needed doing, sir, and naught eases worry like good hard work." 

"Gandalf and I are worried; Bilbo hasn't seemed himself lately." Frodo said, even more careful, probing lightly and watching Sam's reaction. Sam couldn't hide a flush, his very skin betraying him. "It's been growing for some time, I think-- I first noticed more than a year ago, when Spring came. He's been irritable and far less tolerant of visitors. He's stuck very close to home, though he talks of visiting Tuckborough or Buckland. I see it, though he hasn't let it show to others-- at least not until very recently." Frodo spoke the words in a voice that wouldn't carry, and Sam sat very still, not quite sure of his part in the conversation; gentry didn't discuss such things with servants. " I wonder if it isn't his age catching up with him at last... aches or pains, perhaps." 

"He's remarkable well-preserved, and that's a fact." It seemed the safest observation to make, neutral and vaguely complimentary to the master. And quite perfectly true; Mr. Bilbo was well over a hundred, and didn't look much more than a day over fifty. Sam's own Gaffer swore he hadn't changed a bit since he come back to Hobbiton all those years ago before Sam was even born, and there was others as said less pleasant things about it. 

"Gandalf has promised to discuss it with him, and try to find out what is on his mind." Frodo took a drink out of his own mug, which left a pale strip of cream over his lip that made Sam itch to wipe it away. "We're planning to have a special birthday party this autumn, to try and cheer him. Bilbo loves to have a fuss made over his birthday...." Frodo's voice trailed away, and Sam realized he was staring at Frodo's lip. 

Sam flushed and turned away, staring resolutely at the tray. 

"Sam." Frodo mingled warmth and amusement and a touch of chiding in his voice. Sam took a breath and looked back up as Frodo licked the cream away, his pink tongue moving with slow deliberation. 

Sam drew a deep breath; the heat that had fluttered through him earlier returned and settled into his bones. He reached up, drawing his thumb against the corner of Frodo's mouth, wiping away a trace of cream that his tongue had missed. "Sir, you oughtn't tease when you're not up to carrying through." Heart racing, he set his thumb against his own lips and licked away the trace of cream himself, eyes never leaving Frodo's. 

Frodo's smile stretched, but then he winced, fingertips rising gingerly to touch his cut lip. "You're right," he admitted, but he leaned forward anyway. 

Sam held his breath as Frodo leaned close, hand settling lightly on his shoulder and holding him in place as Frodo tenderly nuzzled the unhurt corner of his mouth against Sam's in the best kiss he could manage. "Thank you for coming today," he breathed, warm against Sam's cheek. "I knew I wouldn't lose with you at my back." 

"As if I would do any different." Sam's voice caught in his chest, coming out low and husky. Frodo's curls were still dusty, their satin sheen dulled. Sam wished he could wash them, but there'd be time for that when they returned to Bag End. He lifted his hand gently and let it rest on his master's knee, his smallest finger brushing the skin. 

Frodo rested his cheek against Sam's, and they sat still for a long moment, Sam's heart swollen to bursting with love. Finally he made himself pull back. "You'd best lie down and have a sleep, Mr. Frodo," he said. "We've a long ride in the morning. I'll take care of the dishes and come sit with you." 

Frodo nodded and pulled back the covers, and as Sam went out with the trays balanced on his arms, he was settling himself on his pillow.


	51. A Shortage of Beer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A house party tests Bag End's stores of ale-- and Sam's patience.

"Are you sure about the cream, Mr. Dori?" Sam stared doubtfully into the huge iron saucepan that sat sizzling on a rack over the fire. It held savory strips of pork peppered within an inch of its life, tender carrots, onions, and mushrooms, all fried up nicely in butter and good enough, Sam reckoned, to eat right now. He held a bowl of cream gone sour, hesitating on the verge of pouring it in. It gave forth an unpleasant scent that made his nostrils tighten. "Mr. Bilbo won't be happy if I serve up something as tastes spoiled." 

"The cream is supposed to be curdled," Dori insisted, bustling past behind him. "Never throw away cream-- I'm glad I caught you before you did. For pity's sake, just pour it in. Don't let it boil, mind!" 

Sam did, nose wrinkling, and stirred the clotted mess that resulted. From behind him a crash announced Mr. Pippin dropping a saucer, and Sam winced. At least Frodo was off in his room resting, not tangling it up in the brawl that currently possessed the kitchen. 

"And just a bit of this." Dori reached over Sam's shoulder, holding a flask full of amber liquid; he poured a liberal splash, considered, and added a second-- and a third. The sharp scent of the liquid assaulted Sam's nostrils, and he bit his lip. 

"What's that, sir?" 

"My secret ingredient." Dori passed the bottle under Sam's nose, and the fumes from it near to singed the hair right off his eyebrows. "Take a sip." 

"No thank you, sir." It smelled like alcohol, but without the pleasant mellow edge of the Gaffer's apple brandy, the strongest drink Sam had ever tasted. He gazed at the pan with even more distrust as Dori took a spoon and sampled its contents. 

"It needs more pepper." 

"There's naught more to be milled," Sam protested. "Not without we wait for the market to open tomorrow." 

"It's done, at any rate. Take it off the fire." Dori reached over Sam's shoulder for a boiling pot which had just begun to foam up and send spatters from under its lid to hiss in the coals. It held lumpy dried beans of a sort Sam hadn't ever seen before, a kind the dwarves carried with them. As Sam picked up the peppered pork, a clatter behind announced Mr. Pippin sweeping the broken saucer into the dustpan. Sam dodged him, doing his best not to drop the heavy pan before he could set it down on something as wouldn't scorch or stain. 

"We're almost out of beer." Merry stuck his head into the kitchen, looking at Sam expectantly. 

"There's a full barrel and a half in the cellar, Mr. Merry." Sam finally put the pan down on a cloth and wiped his forehead. 

"As I said," Merry raised a brow, and Sam sighed. Six dwarves, a wizard, and five hobbits? He was right. 

"Where shall I put this?" Pippin approached Sam with the filled dustpan. 

"Anywhere but the scrap bowl; we don't want to have that glass turn up in the compost. Set it out of the way for now and I'll tend it later." Sam forgot to give Pippin his honorific under pressure, reaching for a tureen and pouring the doubtful mix into it. He took inventory of the supper, puffing as he pulled off the pan-mitten. Hot bread in a towel-lined basket, plenty of butter, the pork-and-pepper mess (which he devoutly hoped could be eaten), the strange knobby beans which Dori had swiftly dished up on the counter, platters of cut apples and pears courtesy of Pippin, Merry's pitchers of beer on the table, seed-cake and three sorts of pie for afters... it might just do as a respectable meal, given the short warning. 

Sam picked up the tureen and bustled in to the dining room, setting it down upon the table and making way for Dori-- then Pippin, and then the family and guests sat down to supper, leaving Sam to himself in the the devastated kitchen. There was a drip from the peppered pork on his finger, stinging hot; without thinking he popped it into his mouth and then blinked. It tasted just fine-- it had a sour-sharp savour to it that was different from what he was used to, and it spread fiery heat on his tongue from the pepper, but it was good. He let himself sink against the wall to breathe for a moment, relieved. 

After a moment, he pumped water into a washbasin and into the kettle. Setting the kettle on its hook over the fire, Sam began gathering the pots and pans and washing them before the food could dry and stick on. 

"What is it?" Merry's voice filtered into the kitchen, sounding as dubious as Sam had felt a few moments ago. 

"Peppered pork with curdled cream." Dori provided the information with pride, and a wary silence fell. 

"It's good!" Pippin passed the verdict, and soon all was the clinking of table silver on plates and the occasional murmur for someone to pass the bread or the butter as the company got down to the serious business of eating. 

The quiet gave Sam some time to think; they were short of beds and some folk would have to double up. Merry and Pippin in one, maybe with Mr. Frodo thrown in for good measure. Six dwarves-- two to a room? And that still left Mr. Bilbo and the wizard. Somebody was going to have to sleep on the sofa in the parlour. Sam almost looked forward to returning to his family's smial; tonight it would be quiet by comparison to Bag End. 

He stacked the pots carefully as he washed. He'd have to call Marigold up to help him tomorrow; there weren't no way he could keep up with such a crowd of visitors on his own, especially not when he must go to the market for provisions. And as for that special party-- even a regular birthday party for Bilbo Baggins was beyond the reach of the few Gamgees who still lived on Bagshot Row. 

Picking up a clean cloth, Sam set to work drying the pans and stacking them away. Best not to fret about that now-- tomorrow's menu was far enough to look ahead. They'd need whatever vegetables the market had to offer, which wouldn't be enough as it wouldn't turn market-time for another three days. They had plenty of flour and taters, but Sam would have to buy meat and milk and eggs, and more beer. He thought it might run to having one of the farmers butcher Mr. Bilbo a pig or perhaps a nice fat yearling calf. Usually that weren't done in the summertime, but chickens and ducks and salted fish wouldn't hold this crew, and if the dwarves stayed, the house party would use all the meat before it spoiled. 

Before Sam finished putting away the dishes, Mr. Frodo returned with his empty plate and set it in the washtub. Sam frowned; he suspected Frodo of shorting himself so that the guests could overindulge, but it weren't his place to comment. 

Mr. Frodo looked even more alarming than he had the previous day. The bruises had darkened in the centers, and outside they had turned sickly green and yellow. It was to be hoped the swelling was at its height; if it got any worse, he looked likely to split his lip open even wider, and mayhap the brow over his left eye, too. 

"I thought I'd best come away; I believe my pretty face was putting them off." Frodo gave him a crooked half-smile 

"Nothing of the sort!" Sam protested, but it was purely out of loyalty; he didn't think his food would go down well if he sat at the same table with poor Mr. Frodo looking so hurt. 

"The pepper is more than my lip will bear," Frodo admitted more quietly. "But Dori is fabulously proud of his recipe, and I don't want to shame him in front of Bilbo. What else did he put in it?" 

"Some brown liquor he had in a flask," Sam said, just as quiet. "Strong enough to curl your eyelashes, it smelled." 

Frodo chuckled. "Dwarvish liquor is some of the strongest there is-- they claim it would put hair on the chest of an Elf." 

"I don't doubt it, sir." Sam smiled, and his eyes touched Frodo's, warm with shared amusement. "I'll see to it you get something milder after the house quiets down," he promised. 

"I don't think it will-- not until the wee hours. I'll survive." Frodo stepped aside to let Sam at the dirty plate. "I think you're going to need some help with the chores, Sam." 

"I thought I'd have Marigold come up in the morning." Sam dried the plate quickly, and had it put away in a twinkling. 

"Guests will be in and out of Bag End from now until well after the party." Frodo's brow wrinkled, and he looked at Sam with something unsettled in his eyes. 

"Mari will help as is needed, and I'll find a place to bide when it's called for," Sam said stoutly, but he knew that his eyes told another tale as they locked with Frodo's. 

Frodo glanced towards the other room, then lifted his hand; his fingertips ghosted across Sam's lips. Sam felt his eyes slide shut; blindly he lifted his chin to press his mouth against Frodo's fingers, unable to care who might see them. 

"If this makes Bilbo feel better, it will be worth it," Frodo murmured, but to Sam's ear he didn't sound convinced. 

"Aye," he agreed, but he was hardly able to think, what with the drift of those fingertips back and forth, and then down along the line of his jaw. If Mr. Frodo kept this up, Sam wouldn't be able to walk, neither. At least they were at such an angle they couldn't be seen from the dining room; but if someone came in.... 

"Merry says there isn't enough beer in the cellar," Frodo murmured softly. "I think I'd better have a look." 

"There's only a barrel and a half," said Sam, who knew. 

"I think we'd better be quite sure," Frodo chided him gently, and Sam swallowed, feeling a fool as he realized what his master was about. 

"It wouldn't do to mistake it, at that," Sam mumbled. "Not with company here and all...." Oh, he was babbling, but Mr. Frodo's eyes.... 

"Then come along." That was mischief in those eyes now, and Frodo turned and led the way into the cellar, lifting the key off its peg and turning it in the lock. Sam picked lit a lamp and followed him, adjusting the wick and the chimney so that it gave off a soft glow-- enough to see, but not enough to make the room bright. His heart pounded like he'd run all the way up the Hill from Bywater, and he could hardly walk-- not only were his breeches too tight, but his knees felt like water and his hands were shaking so hard he thought he might drop the lamp. 

The cellar weren't dusty; Sam had seen to it that no corner of Bag End went untouched after he learned Mr. Bilbo was cross with him. Mr. Frodo pattered across the flagstone floor and past the beer barrels on their low pedestals to the smaller casks, which were stacked on specially-made shelves and ready for tapping. Several of the Gaffer's apple brandy were recognizable in the dim glow from the lamp; Sam had drawn the chalk marks upon them with his own hand. 

While Mr. Frodo paused long enough to take a tap and a mallet, making ready to broach one of the smaller casks, Sam set the lamp up on a corner of the everyday wine rack. It was nearly full, as were the rows of racks behind it, each holding rarer and more expensive vintages than the last, until the earthen wall and the last rack, which held bottles of Old Winyards still left from Mr. Bungo's time. They were well-provisioned there, at any rate, and Mr. Gandalf wouldn't go athirst even if the dwarves did. 

Sam followed Mr. Frodo back along the barrel-rack, which ran the length of the long, narrow cellar. Mr. Frodo cataloged the spirits as they passed. "There's apple brandy and plenty of cider... a barrel of hard cider, too, from the Buckland harvest." Frodo made his way deeper into the cool dim of the cellar. "We'll need beer of course, and we'll want more of your father's brandy later this season, if the harvest comes in, and we should really keep more hard cider on hand. Aha, here!" 

Frodo set down his tools laid his finger on a small cask, one which Sam had dusted, but didn't know naught about. "Bilbo always keeps a bit of this handy in case dwarves visit. It's called 'whiskey,' and I think it must have been something like this Dori added to the peppered pork. Dwarves make it-- it's made with corn and malted barley, but not hops. This is malt whiskey." He turned the barrel carefully, reading its chalked label. "It's nearly thirty years old; Bilbo says it should age well before drinking, and warned me against it. It's very strong. I've always been curious, but I never had the courage to tap the barrel; he would have known who did it." 

"Well, that's a relief, then. They can drink this, and mayhap it'll send them to sleep faster than beer," Sam hazarded. He didn't care much about barrels, whiskey or otherwise, if the truth be told. Had Mr. Frodo forgot the flirting that led them down here in the first place? It seemed he had. 

"I daresay." Frodo turned and leaned against the wall; they'd reached the end of the row. "Sam." He lifted his arms almost lazily, his eyes gleaming under his lashes, and Sam stepped forward, heart hammering, to fill them, setting his rough hands shyly on his master's shoulders. 

"I thought I might go mad this past week." Frodo's voice tickled at his ear. His body was warm and slender, supple against Sam's chest. "And I may go mad before Overlithe, with all this company about." He tilted his head and nuzzled Sam's earlobe between his lips-- another of those curious sideways kisses, well away from the cut on his lip. Sam drew a hitching breath, and when it escaped again, it carried a little moan with it. 

"We can't stay long. Bilbo will notice we've gone." Mr. Frodo's hands slid along Sam's shoulders and down his sides, and his hands curled behind Sam's back at his waist, pulling him forward. Sam gasped, his face flushing with heat; Mr. Frodo held him loosely. With what little of his mind remained for thinking, Sam suspected Frodo just might be hard beneath his breeches. He could feel the most delicious tease of something nudging at his thigh. 

Sam tilted his face for more of the butterfly soft press of Frodo's mouth and dared to shift his foot, letting Mr. Frodo's thigh slip between his legs, which nestled them up right against one another. Oh, he'd been right-- Frodo was as hard as Sam was himself. Sam's whole body tingled and felt he might sizzle and seethe right away like a spoonful of water in a flat pan over the fire. He gasped and nestled his face instinctively against Frodo's neck, mouthing with growing confidence at the soft, faintly salty skin he found there. 

Frodo sighed, his head tipping back, and pushed his hips forward, his hands sliding down to press them together tightly. Sam shivered. His master's slender bones and firm muscle flexed under his hands, and he explored, gently discovering Frodo's narrow shoulders and the exquisite lean stretch of his back. Above his nape, there were soft curls for Sam's fingers to burrow into-- and they did, quite without meaning to, but very conveniently. Sam braced Frodo's head inside the curve of his palm and attended to the very serious business of kissing every inch of his throat. Skin as tender-sweet as lambs-wool, and so warm! Saltier now than before. Sam dared to let his tongue steal out for a slow lick that made Frodo squirm against him. 

"Ah, sir," Sam mumbled without lifting his mouth. "Better than beer, this is-- let the others try this, and they'd not want for a drop of drink." 

"Would you?" Breathless and broken, Mr. Frodo's voice sent a shiver down Sam's spine. 

"Let them?" Sam chuckled, hoarse. "I wouldn't, at that." Possession swelled in him, and he closed his teeth lightly over the vein that pulsed in Frodo's throat. Frodo gasped and pressed his hips forward against Sam, sending a luscious sensation of heat and pressure flaring between Sam's legs-- 

"Frodo-lad, are you in here?" Bilbo's voice echoed faint, muffled by distance and the heavy wooden racks, but there was no mistaking its tone: laced with suspicion. 

They sprang apart and Frodo hissed a word that made Sam's ears burn. He fumbled on the rack next to the barrel and pushed the unused tap into Sam's hand. Understanding immediately, Sam scrabbled for the mallet and by the time Mr. Bilbo arrived, he was hammering the tap into the cask. 

"Sam didn't know about the dwarvish whiskey, so I brought him down to tap the barrel." Frodo sounded as composed and mild as a still summer morn. "We're low on beer, Sam. Will you have some sent up in the morning?" Perfectly cool and reasonable, those tones. 

"Yes, Mr. Frodo." Sam struggled to match them. Mr. Bilbo weren't no fool, but what with the condition of Mr. Frodo's face and all, surely he wouldn't think they'd been up to any kissing. 

"Oh. The dwarvish whiskey? Well. Hrm." Mr. Bilbo's annoyance sputtered weakly, then subsided. "That's good thinking, my lad. Samwise, there are empty bottles in the pantry. Whiskey is best served out of glass, so go find three of the biggest bottles and three corks to fit, then fill the bottles and bring them up to the guest parlour." 

"Yes, Mr. Bilbo." Sam finished driving the tap into the barrel and stood upright-- carefully, for his body hadn't forgot the feel of Mr. Frodo's skin yet. "Right away, sir." 

"Frodo, come along. Meriadoc is asking after you." Bilbo summoned Frodo with an imperious wave, and Frodo fell in behind him meekly-- but not without looking back to give Sam a sly wink out of his good eye before he vanished. 

Sam shook his head, scowling at the innocent barrel, and took a deep breath. After he composed himself, he went to fetch the bottles as he'd been told. 

It looked to prove a long and frustrating summer indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peppered Dwarvish Pork 
> 
> INGREDIENTS:   
> Pork fillet - 450 g (1 lb) cut into strips, Freshly ground black pepper, Butter - 25 g (1 oz), Carrots - 225 g (8 oz) peeled, cut into strips, Onion - 1 large chopped, Mushrooms - 100 g (3 oz) sliced, Irish whiskey - 3 tbsp, Soured cream - 150 ml (5 fl oz), Fresh parsley - chopped, to garnish 
> 
> COOKING:   
> 1\. Liberally sprinkle the pork with black pepper. Melt the butter in a large frying pan, add the pork and carrots, stir-fry for 5 minutes. 2. Add the onions and mushrooms and cook until soft. Stir in the whiskey and soured cream and heat through, do not boil. Serve garnished with chopped parsley. 
> 
> From British Recipes by Helen Watson


	52. Market Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam runs afoul of Lobelia.

By the time Sam made his way from Number Three through Hobbiton and down to the Bywater market, the Sun had risen above the horizon and the cool of morning was rapidly fading. The weather had turned fine but the earth was damp from a midnight rain, promising a hot sticky day ahead. He kept to the shade of the fragrant bird-cherry trees that lined the stream that emerged from the springhouse and wound its way down to join The Water. Fat, golden-furred honeybees buzzed through the white blossoms, making a pleasant busy hum. 

Arriving at the market, Sam wiped his brow with one wrist, careful not to smear the ink on the list he'd made for himself the previous evening. He read through it to remind himself what he needed. Pepper and sugar, herbs of all sorts, milk and eggs and cream enough to fill the springhouse, beer in quantity, bread and sweet cakes and pies to spare the smial the heat of baking, fresh vegetables, and meat. All enough for, as Mr. Bilbo described it, "a small army." 

Mr. Bilbo was to meet him forenoon with a cart and a brace of dwarves to help with the lading, so Sam went right about, choosing those items as would take longest right off. He wandered about the green, where a selection of animals stood tethered to posts, cropping grass or nosing windfall apples out of baskets. A bit of mutton would go well, mayhap; the shearing was past and he could see that the sheep looked sleek and well-fatted. The yearling pigs looked likely as well, fattening up nicely now that winter was well over. 

As always, Sam felt a pang of pity for the animals-- it didn't seem fair to the poor yearlings, just starting out proper on life as they were, trusting and not expecting that the hands as had fed them would soon take up the butcher's knife. 

"Now Samwise, don't ye be dithering. Beasts as is bred for the table has to wind up on it, or they'll eat us out of house and hole!" Jolly's spot-on imitation of the Gaffer caught Sam by surprise, and he turned with a laugh on his lips. 

"Jolly Cotton, don't speak so loud, or you'll earn us both a clout on the ear." He clapped Jolly on the shoulder. "I saw by the Gaffer and the girls that you'd made it home at last. Did you travel well?" 

"We took it slow, and made the most of the shade." Jolly smiled. "Did you bide fine on your journey?" 

"Well enough." Sam smiled a little, half-rueful. "We picked up a lot of company along the Road." 

"So I hear. It ain't often Dwarves linger hereabouts, mostly just passing through with maybe a night at the inn along their way." Jolly's voice fell. "I don't know a soul in Hobbiton whose tongue hasn't wagged until it's nigh too sore to help with having a bite or a sup!" He rose off his half-barrel seat and moved out among his father's livestock. "I saw you giving the sheep an eye. Which of them do you fancy?" 

"This one and that," Sam judged. "Which would you choose between them?" 

"I can keep them both back for you; I daresay Mr. Bilbo will be wanting another before the week is out." 

"He'll be wanting more than that." Sam confided. "There's to be the biggest party ever for the Birthday this year. Mr. Frodo is coming of age, and Mr. Bilbo will be eleventy-one." 

"Eleventy-one." Jolly rolled the words around his tongue thoughtfully. "I can hardly credit it, to look at him." 

"He comes of long-lived stock, they say." Sam shrugged, helpless to explain Mr. Bilbo's sprightly looks. 

"They say the Old Took showed every day of his years as he lived them, though." Jolly picked up a tar-pot and made a mark on each of the sheep Sam had chosen. "Have Mr. Bilbo step by, and Da will set aside animals special for him, and fatten them up, if he'd like." 

"He'll want to buy local, as far as he can." Sam nodded. "Have the sows farrowed?" 

"Aye, fine litters, with more expected. We've fifty piglets or more already." Jolly nudged one of the pigs with his toe, and it grunted. "Has Mr. Bilbo calmed now the fighting is finished?" 

"Not to my eye," Sam replied, just as quiet. "I see you have sow piglets on sale," he said as well, a good deal louder. "There are that many, you're selling sows as well as boars?"

"The sow piglets aren't for butchering as much as they are for breeding," Jolly picked up a bit of stick and scratched one of the pigs on its broad pink back. "They cost a good bit more than the boar pigs do. But yes, our sty is filled with sows and litters; we've no room for more." 

"How do the cows look this year?" 

"We've had a hard year for calving. Da says Tom should be skinned for letting the fence fall in the low pasture, but there's no stopping a bull when it has a mind to rut, and Noakes wouldn't move his breeding stock out from next to ours, for he had a mind to hay the field where they might have gone. We got a good bit of free stud service out of it, but that bull of his ought to be gelded, and that's a fact: its head's too big." 

Sam winced, clucking his tongue; the cows had a hard time birthing calves with large heads, and that was a fact. "Have you lost any?" 

"One calf thus far, but we've more to come, and Noakes's cows have fared even worse. If Mr. Bilbo would be wanting a full-sized bull to butcher for his party, I daresay Noakes would sell his bull for a bargain price." 

"I'll let him know." Sam nodded satisfaction. "Mr. Bilbo will be by before noontide; can you have one of those sheep hung up waiting for him?" 

"I'll help Nick and Nibs start on it right away." Jolly whistled, and Sam hastened on his way, not wanting to see the butchering take place if he could help it. 

Sam wound his way through the market, making purchases and placing orders, and as he went he found that Jolly was right-- tongues had wagged until they ought to have been sore, but they hardly paused when he passed, for all that they talked of him as often as not. To hear the tales, both Mr. Frodo and Mr. Lotho had thrashed the other within an inch of his life; it all depended on who you listened to. More disturbing, there was some as seemed to think it was Mr. Frodo who'd done the cheating. 

Sam did his best to set the talk aright, but he knew it was beyond his ability, so he had to satisfy himself with a few corrections and move on about his business. He reckoned folk as had sense would know the truth of things without being told. 

By the time Mr. Bilbo's cart trundled up, Sam's shirt was soaked through with sweat and he had as much as he could carry, plus all sorts of items spread about the market waiting to be picked up. Dori and another dwarf Sam didn't know hopped down off the cart and started loading up the barrels of beer that stood outside the inn chalk-marked "BB" as quick as lightning. 

Sam set his load of tallow, lamp oil, and assorted necessaries into the cart on top of a barrel and stepped up to Mr. Bilbo, diffident. "I've got the Cottons butchering a yearling lamb, Mr. Bilbo, and I've bought currant jelly and plenty of salt and garlic for roasting." 

"Fine, fine." Bilbo frowned about the market, one hand in his weskit pocket as though his stomach pained him. 

"Jolly told me his da will fatten up sheep and pigs and chickens for the party, if you ask, and we're like to find Old Noakes would give us a good price on his new bull, which might make a good roast. It hasn't made for a good calving, at any rate." Sam eyed Mr. Bilbo, anxious. 

Mr. Bilbo pinched his nostrils at the bridge of his nose and took a step aside from Sam, who flushed and hastily moved himself downwind. "Begging your pardon, sir. It's a hot morning." Dogged, he kept on. "I thought we might have the Cottons butcher a yearling pig for the table next, perhaps as early as Trewesday. They've a few fine stout pigs for sale, if you'd like to--" 

"Yes, yes." Bilbo flapped a hand at Sam, still not looking at him. "Take care of the arrangements." He frowned across the market, and Sam followed his gaze, understanding at once the cause of his distraction. Mistress Lobelia stood there, a bunch of carrots held aloft in her left hand, shaking the first finger of her right under the harried shopkeeper's nose. 

"Mayhap you'd care to go inside the Green Dragon, sir, and have a sup while the cart's loaded," Sam ventured. 

Mr. Bilbo's eyes snapped around and fixed on him, narrowing. "That's my own decision to make, Samwise Gamgee. Dori, you and Búri come inside the Inn with me and let Sam take care of the cart." He stamped off in high dudgeon, the sting of his ill-temper only partly softened by Dori's kindly parting wink. 

"You can't seem to set a foot aright with the master, Sam." Rose Cotton's soft voice from behind nearly made Sam jump out of his skin. "But you should be knowing there's one hearth where you're always welcome. Come along now, if you like; Jolly says that the mutton is hung and near ready to cart off. You'll have to set it roasting right away, or the meat will spoil, what with the heat and all." 

"I've got to load up the cart first," Sam said, not quite meeting her eye. She didn't seem to have Jolly's understanding of how to ease a difficult situation, that was certain. 

"I'll send Nick and Nibs to help, if I can find them. They've been having a wash, and they won't be all over blood no more." She bustled off, purposeful, and Sam set about his task, hauling and stacking half-bushel baskets of leeks and greens, peas and beans, turnips and other roots, crisp lettuces and pearly white cauliflowers and cabbages and tomatoes and strawberries. Then he fetched back eggs and milk and cream, butter and honeycomb, and all sorts of meat as would keep-- smoked hams and bacon, joints of smoked mutton, salted fish in casks, and nearly a whole calf smoked in pieces. 

Nick and Nibs never come to help, and Sam chuckled, reckoning that Rosie couldn't find them and picturing her irritation at the failure. He hesitated at the last, spreading a bit of canvas to lay the fresh mutton down upon and then fold back up over it, thinking that he might move the cart nearer the field where the meat could be seen hanging, but the memory of Mr. Bilbo's annoyance held him back. He and Jolly and Nibs and Nick could carry it without moving the cart, and he could send Rosie in for Mr. Bilbo. 

Sam set off through the crowd for a last time, feeling unpleasantly hot and dusty. It was past noon now, and nearing the worst of the day's heat. He wanted to be off and get the meat started roasting out in one of the common fireplaces that stood year-round on the Party Field. 

"Jolly, see if you can round up the lads. We'll have to carry the sheep and put it on the cart," he called, squinting up at the rope that held the skinned and gutted sheep hanging from over a branch in a tall oak. 

"That'll be a bloody job, and no mistake," Jolly clucked his tongue. "But if we must, we must. Go fetch Nick and Nibs and rinse off a bit-- they're hiding under those willows down by The Water." 

Sam trotted off and found them on a sloping grassy bank as promised, basking in the dappled Sun with their eyes shut and the bare skin of their narrow chests shining. "Half a minute, lads, and there's a job to do," Sam roused them. He peeled off his own shirt and stepped into the shallows. Scooping up water, he rinsed the sweat from his shoulders and chest, sighing at its cool trickle down his back and over his ribs. "Don't bother putting on your shirts. You'll just get them all in a muck." He stepped out after an all-too-short moment in the cool and they trooped up to the green together. 

Rosie was there with Jolly, awaiting them, and her eyes rested on Sam, bright with interest. He flushed, keenly aware of his bare chest, and refused to meet her eye. After a moment, she stepped away to gather up the basin that held the sheep's heart and its liver and all else that might be of use, but her eyes slid sideways to find him far too often to suit Sam's modesty. 

In spite of Sam's embarrassment, there was work to be done. He and Jolly loosened the hitch in the rope and together they lowered the sheep until they got a hold on it. Then Jolly took over while Sam helped support its legs. Finally they had it down and balanced on their shoulders and set out for the cart, Sam foremost and walking backwards hastily, blood dripping down his shoulder over his ribs, staining the waist of his breeches. 

It proved a mistake halfway to the cart. 

"Ho there!" Jolly's warning came a moment too late as Sam collided with an obstruction and nearly fell over trying not to trample it. 

"Here now, you great lummox!" The voice that shrilled in Sam's ear was familiar, and his heart sank into his toes. "You've spoiled my frock!" 

"Begging your pardon, Mistress Lobelia; I didn't see you there, as I was coming along backwards like." Sam hastily touched his brow to her, freeing a messy hand to do it. The load shifted precariously, threatening to topple into the dust. "A moment please, mistress, while we set this down." 

"You'll not leave while I'm talking to you, you young ruffian!" 

Sam winced, but Jolly and his brothers were pushing forward, compelled by the urgent need to safely deliver the slippery, dripping meat, and he had no choice but to go on. Lobelia followed, shrilling like a teakettle. "How dare you ignore me, you ill-begotten lout?" She caught Sam's ribs with a solid blow from her rolled umbrella, and he hissed, struggling to keep his hold on the awkward, flopping legs. He tried to ignore her; the cart was in sight and his fingers were slipping. She battered at him, spoiling her umbrella as well as her frock, if she cared enough to notice. 

They reached the cart and flung the sheep on it just as Sam's fingers lost hold for once and for all, his end landing precariously half-on and half-off the back of the cart, but the meat was clean and safe. Quickly he thrust it up onto the bed of the cart, and he and the Cotton lads folded the canvas over so Rosie could nestle the basin in the nook between its legs and cover it with a bit of cloth. 

"Mistress Lobelia, I'm truly sorry," Sam turned to face her, and immediately took a glancing blow to the forehead that made him wince and cover his face, lest she stop flailing in favor of stabbing him in the eye. 

"That you aren't; that was done on purpose-- the Cotton boy steered you into me, and you let him. You think I don't know what you're about? The two of you!" She spared a roundhouse blow that struck Jolly's shoulder. "Picking a fight with my Lotho? You won't dare hit a lady!" She thrust the point of the umbrella into Jolly's ribs, and he yelped. Sam stepped forward to aid him, but she beat him back, buffeting the side of his head sharply. 

At least the latter half of her words was true; Sam had no idea what to do other than take the beating and try to calm her down, but she was having none of it. "You deserve every bit of this and more, you ruffian!" She punctuated the shout with a stab to Sam's unguarded stomach. "How dare you lay your hands on a Baggins? And not just my Lotho. The whole of the Shire knows you spend your nights whoring for that Frodo Baggins! I should say Brandybuck, though even that's too good for the likes of y--" 

"That is enough!" The bellow silenced the whole marketplace of hobbits, who had gathered in a vibrating, shouting knot about Sam and Lobelia. Mr. Bilbo stalked out of the Green Dragon, his pleasant features hardened in a scowl. He thrust his hand in to his pocket, stamping forward, and the hobbits parted before him like mist in a meadow. Sam quailed, despair settling over him like a shroud. 

Lobelia still held her umbrella aloft, her features contorted with fury as she whirled on Bilbo, but apparently she did not dare to strike him. "The fool ruined my frock! And my best umbrella!" 

"Samwise?" Mr. Bilbo's stern gaze slid to him. 

"I run into her, but it was backwards-like. I didn't see where I was goin' and I didn't mean to," Sam wrung his hands, distraught. "We were carrying the mutton, sir!" 

"So I see." Mr. Bilbo turned his gaze to Lobelia. "Out of good courtesy I would buy you a new frock because of the accident, if you had the sense to act like a hobbit and not like a troll or a squabbling goblin. But you overstep yourself, my dear Lobelia," his lip curled to match the venom in his words, "when you abuse my hired helpers and when you attack my good name and that of our cousin." He lifted his eyes from hers and swept them around the circle, extending the warning. "Frodo's business is his own, and it is none of yours. Good day to you." 

Bilbo turned away, lifting his chin and straightening his weskit, ignoring her sputter of rage. "Come along, Samwise. Thank you and your family, Wilcome." He tossed Jolly a silver coin and three coppers followed-- one each for Nick, Nibs, and Rosie. 

Dori and Búri hid their smiles in their beards as they stepped forward and climbed on to the cart, sitting down atop two of the barrels; Mr. Bilbo motioned Sam up on to the front seat to drive. Taming the trembling of his hands, Sam obeyed, not pausing to go back after his shirt. He carefully started the ponies and backed the cart, then set it moving forwards in a wide, cautious circle back on to the Road and up the Hill. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bilbo, sir." Sam murmured unhappily when they had cleared the town, certain his own turn was next. 

Bilbo huffed, staring forwards at the ponies' swishing tails. "She was spoiling for a fight and wouldn't have let us leave without it. I daresay she stepped in front of you on purpose." He looked aside to Sam, seeming ready to form more words, but for a moment he remained silent, considering. "You do a fine job, lad. Lobelia merely serves to remind me I haven't said that often enough lately." 

"Thank you, Mr. Bilbo, sir," Sam ventured, tentative. 

"Mr. Bilbo is enough and it has been since you were a lad." Bilbo drew a long, deep breath and let it out explosively. "Gandalf is right...." 

Sam waited, but Bilbo seemed indisposed to say more, staring at Sam in silence until Sam couldn't bear it no more. 

"Yes, sir?" 

"It's going to be a busy summer and we'll be needing extra help about the place. It's time, but I haven't the room to offer you your own bed at the moment. I think instead I've a mind to raise your wages, and to hire on your sisters for the summer, if they're willing. And after the party... I think you'll be wanted to live on at Bag End, if you've a mind. Valet, gardener, and cook, with your own room to stay in." He paused, holding Sam fixed with his keen eye, until Sam was forced to look away or else he feared he might drive the ponies right off the Road. 

"I'll ask-- and I have good reasons, mind you, Samwise-- that you and Frodo restrain yourselves until then, and wait until he is of age and has come into his own." Bilbo finished, and turned his eyes forward at last. "As a courtesy to me. I'll speak to him as well." 

"Yes, sir-- I mean yes, Mr. Bilbo," Sam stammered, barely able to form a whisper. 

"That's settled, then." Bilbo fished his empty pipe from his pocket and stuck it between his teeth. By the time they reached Hobbiton, he was humming.


	53. Here Be Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo watches Sam cook mutton.

From atop the Hill, his back propped against the rough grey-green bark of the old oak that grows there, its roots twining down inside the very walls of Bag End, Frodo Baggins can see all the way to Bywater and beyond. 

Today, however, his eyes do not rove to the horizon. They are fixed on the Party Field, which lies spread out before Bag End in the valley at the foot of the Hill. Smoke rises from an open-air oven there, and a bustle of figures seethe about it like ants at a hill. 

Frodo taps the stem of his cold pipe against his teeth, his eyes moving as one figure moves among the group-- conspicuous, bare chest shining in the Sun. He thinks Sam should find a shirt, for his skin is unused to the Sun's strength, and could be burned, which would be unpleasant for him. Presently, he thinks, he may go down and let his presence remind Sam of the need to cover up so none will think ill thoughts of the two of them together. 

But for now he waits, watching the struggle to mount what looks to be a full-grown sheep on the arm of the spit so it can be swung over the fire. Frodo knows he would not be particularly helpful if he were there; he would be a worry to Sam and a nuisance to the sturdy dwarves, who are hoisting the animal's weight with the strength of their burly arms, used to swinging hammers and working the hot iron of the forge. 

The Sun dazzles their eyes-- indeed, they all have their hoods pulled firmly over their heads, shading their faces-- but the heat will not trouble them. They would not mind the heat of the fire even at high summer. As he heard them say before they went, it is nothing compared to the heat of the forge, and the cooking will give them something to do. 

Sam does not seem to mind the heat either, leaning precariously close to the fire as he binds the legs together and pushes the spit over the coals. Even at this distance, the air surrounding the oven ripples, distorted by heat. The fire has been burning ever since Frodo came up on to the Hill to watch. Sam will feed it judiciously, keeping the flames hot but low, so that the meat will not scorch. He will baste the meat with a long-handled brush while the dwarves help by turning the spit. 

Bilbo originally protested his guests' involvement in the work, but he seems to be convinced, now, that it is needed. He stands well aside, watching the proceedings with his hands on his hips. A tiny white puff of smoke rises from his mouth as he lights his pipe. His posture is easy, most likely because Frodo is nowhere to be seen. 

Frodo pulls out his own pouch and thinks of lighting his pipe, but decides not to do so. He fingers the worked leather pouch instead and listens to the faint sounds that travel up the Hill to reach him. There is the creaking of the spit-handle, which could use a bit of grease. There is the babble of voices, indistinct and unintelligible. There is laughter-- much of it deeper than hobbit voices-- and a snatch of song. 

There is a tang of woodsmoke in Frodo's nose. 

He knows that if he goes down to the field, the scent of garlic will be added to it-- garlic and butter and cloves and sizzling meat dripping into the coals from the basting, a mouth-watering smell that will richen as the long afternoon waxes and wanes. Towards nightfall, Sam will press a knife into the haunch of the mutton and judge the juices that drip forth. Then the roast will be drawn and served whole on the board-- the dwarves are making tables ready for feasting, laying out the rough wooden benches, boards, and sawhorses that Bilbo has arranged to be brought up from storage in Hobbiton. 

Frodo looks up into the sky through the tangled branches and the swaying green lattice of leaves, and he is pleased to see only fleecy puffs of cloud there. Most of them are massed far away on the horizon. They should not thicken before nightfall, and will not trouble the feasting. 

A feminine giggle enters his ear, rising from the cold chimney to his left-- May Gamgee. She and Marigold are tidying the hole while Sam tends the mutton. From the sound of it, Merry has made a flirtatious remark to her, and is following it with another. Frodo feels a pang of irritation at this knowledge. 

He can hear a sound of clippers below-- the Gaffer has been enlisted in this effort as well, and he is tending the garden while Sam is occupied elsewhere. His knees are too stiff to let him stoop to trim the grass or pull weeds, but he can care for the deadheading and a bit of hedge-trimming so that Sam does not fall too far behind. Sam himself will be able to catch up the rest tomorrow, when there are adequate food stores in the house again. 

Frodo looks forward to this; he likes to look out of the windows and see Sam going about his business in the garden, his pleasant face intent and his sturdy muscles busy. It gives Frodo a sense that everything is safe and secure and as it should be. He likes to see the light in Sam's curls and the darker stain on his shirt between his shoulder blades. He enjoys the way Sam's suspenders dangle at the sides of his hips and the way his feet are stained with grass and soil. 

Frodo considers the path down to the Party Field, but remains where he is for the time being. He draws a map of it in his mind, embellishing it with scrollwork and a label or two: "Treasure." "Here be dragons." A wry smile curls his lips as he imagines the Gaffer growing a tail or spouting flame. Bilbo, at least, is breathing smoke from his nostrils, and looks the part. 

His eyes fix on Bilbo for a moment. Frodo is worried for Bilbo. He has not been himself lately. This is a matter of great concern for Frodo, who loves his cantankerous old cousin and has always admired his kind heart. Bilbo has been a father to him for many years, and it distresses him to see the old hobbit unhappy. He obviously is, for an ever-increasing amount of the time, and Frodo thinks this is the cause of Bilbo's recent bouts of temper, but he does not know the source of the unhappiness, and he is helpless to mend it. He thinks that by remaining where he is, he may be easing at least one of its causes-- the visible affection between himself and Sam-- and so he remains still. 

Frodo does not know when his regard for Samwise moved beyond attraction and became this deep, tender, thing that it now is-- a thing that sinks deep inside him glows like the coals that ripple the air over the brick hearth of the oven. He knows when he became aware of the attraction, and he remembers his surprise when later he came to realize it was not all he felt, but he is not sure those are the moments upon which he would put his finger. 

He finds Sam with his eyes again and pictures how he must look: glowing ruddy with the heat of the sun and the fire and with sweat gleaming in runnels down the skin of his ribs, the curly fur on his chest matted wet with it. His curls will be stuck to his neck. He will smell rich and musky with salt, as mouth-watering as the roasting meat. 

Frodo shifts his hips to ease the tightness inside his breeches. He has made up his mind that he will have Sam. He does not know when it will happen or how, though he has devoted a hundred nights or more to crafting variations upon the theme, his sweat-slick palm busy on his rigid flesh as he dreams of being pressed beneath that golden body, spread open and filled up and whimpering. 

For Lotho is very nearly right, curse him-- that is how Frodo wants Sam, or at least, it is one of the things he wants. He wants to feel Sam's strength and know the urgency of his passion, wants to feel it spent on him and in him. He can feel the intensity in Sam each time they touch-- tightly leashed, carefully husbanded. It lies guarded behind politeness and gentle care, but it is always present and Frodo believes it is almost ready to sear through the restraints and take what it will have. Perhaps all it will require is letting Sam know that it is wanted. Frodo is not sure. 

Frodo is no innocent; he was not one when he left Brandy Hall and he is not one now. He had his first tumble when Sam was still toddling about his family's yard in swaddling-clothes-- she was a pretty lass, but he can't recall her name. That thought makes him feel faintly sad, but he does not regret that she has passed out of his life. He does not regret that all of his early dalliances are over. 

He lets his palm stray lightly across his lap, enjoying the brush of pressure. He can't do more, not with the Gaffer near, not when Hamfast is likely to climb up on the roof to check that no gorse is coming up amidst the grass, which isn't trimmed here as often as it is on the lawn. Frodo will probably not even be able to sate his flesh later, for the house is full and he is sharing his bed with Merry and Pippin. Perhaps tomorrow, in the bath. 

Frodo sighs and wipes a droplet of sweat from his brow. It soaks into his milk-white cuff. He lets his hands fall to the sides and digs his fingertips into the soft earth, arching in a stretch that taunts him by dragging the cloth of his breeches tight against his flesh for an all-too-brief moment. He wishes, for a moment, that he were on his own-- that he had his own hobbit-hole, that he was his own master, that he could take Sam to him properly. 

But even in daydreaming he would not leave Bag End, or Bilbo, whom he loves-- he would not know what to do without the old hobbit, the only family he has known for so many years now. He cannot imagine taking Sam out of the gardens of Bag End, or see himself rising in the morning and failing to find Bilbo already awake and puttering about, pouring himself a cup of tea and grousing aloud as he tries to remember where the sugar bowl is kept (which is exactly where it was placed the previous day, and the day before that). 

Here be dragons, he thinks ruefully, and this time he means himself: his own body and the fire of wanting that Sam has kindled in it, which consumes him from the inside out, disrupting the peace of everyday existence with its craving for treasure. 

Frodo passes his hand over his face and startles himself with a yawn so wide it makes his jaw creak. The Sun has moved and found a hole between the branches; his shady refuge is growing hot. 

He gets up, his back crackling as he stretches again. He decides that he will go inside and pour himself a drink of fresh, cool water. He will sit in the study as he drinks it and read until his body has eased and is less likely to betray him. 

Then he will go down to the Party Field, and he will help Samwise find his shirt.


	54. Fire Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwarves make plans while Sam watches and worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks go out to Teasel, my steadfast beta, who gave me the idea that broke my writer's block and then waded bravely through a sea of indefinite pronouns until we emerged together on the far shore with a readable fic. And then, above and beyond the call of duty, she went once more into the breach and provided a title. Greater love hath no beta.
> 
> For those who are keeping score on the timeline, you will note that I've altered the timeline of the attempt to retake Moria. It shouldn't have much tangible effect on canon; there's plenty of time for Balin to make the attempt and fail before the quest gets underway. Plus, to me it makes more sense that the attempt happened later; it has always seemed unlikely that so many years would pass without anyone thinking to send out a party to find out whatever happened to Balin.
> 
> 98% of the poetry quoted herein is Tolkien's. I took quite a bit of artistic liberty in combining two poems from The Hobbit and altering certain references to make them fit the present situation.

The Sun was sinking low by the time Mr. Frodo found his way down to the field, but Sam's afternoon had been so busy he'd hardly noticed Frodo hadn't been about. The day's heat had faded with the sinking Sun, and the blue sky was shading towards black. Already a few stray stars had begun peeping out, with more joining them even as Sam watched the day fade from orange to rose in the west, and then to soft purple, a pleasant gloom gathering under the trees and spreading across the land.

May had brought 'round a shirt for Sam, no doubt at the Gaffer's behest, not long after he first swung the spit over the coals, and he'd put it on as she bade him. Only now was he glad of it, as the evening breeze sprang up and bent the flames of the cookfire, making the blaze give off a low roar and pushing the smoke away down the valley. May had run back home at Mr. Bilbo's bidding and fetched Daisy and Marigold both, and they had spent the afternoon running between the field and Bag End, peeling taters and boiling cabbages, baking bread and cooking apples with brown sugar and butter-- and all manner of other good things.

Mr. Frodo pulled rein and stopped the cart that bore them, the meal, a barrel or two of ale, and the Gaffer. Half a dozen dwarves tramped along behind, singing a low, rolling song Sam hadn't never heard before. It made the gathering dim seem to draw all the closer, though in truth it was just the last rim of the Sun sinking past the horizon. Without so much as closing his eyes, Sam could almost imagine they were underground, with the Dwarven song rolling and echoing through halls and corridors of stone.

Marigold's laughter soon spoiled his imagining. She and Daisy and May and Mr. Frodo and all the Dwarves set to unloading the cart, and in a twinkling the rough trestle table was covered with linen and laid with platters of vegetables and dishes of fruit. Platters held fresh loaves and soft fresh butter, and cakes both sweet and savory, and bowls of fresh berries sat alongside dishes of heavy cream.

Sam took his knife and approached the fire, which had burned low. A few of the Dwarves raked out roasted potatoes of their own-- strange orange potatoes with a long, lumpy shape and narrowed ends. Sam had taken one of them to cut up and plant on his own, and hoped it would yield a harvest to last over winter; they smelled savory for all their strange look.

"Has the mutton roasted through?" Bilbo appeared at Sam's shoulder, handing over a long knife with a blade worn slender by many passes of the sharpening stone. Sam took it and leaned in close, piercing the haunch and gazing at the juices-- they ran clear, hot fat crackling on the coals and glistening on the crisp, well-basted skin.

"I reckon it's done," he said, and in a twinkling the Dwarves took over, six of them bearing boards on their broad shoulders and two reaching with hooks to pull the spit off the fire. After much pushing and prodding and more than a few burned fingers, they managed to work the mutton off the spit and onto the board, which sagged as they carried it to the table and set it there in the center, legs sticking up. The meat had cooked up tender, and looked near to falling off the bone.

"Well done, Samwise." Mr. Bilbo slapped his back, and Sam took a deep breath, near to bursting from the praise.

They followed the roast to the table, and everyone sat down but Sam's sisters, who filled mugs and tankards for all before they took their seats at the low end of the table with Sam and the Gaffer himself. Mr. Bilbo sat at the head with Balin at his right and Frodo at his left. Merry and Pippin sat a little farther on, and all the Dwarves between. Sam didn't mind, though he would have dearly liked a better view of his master.

Still, he didn't have much time for fretting, what with all the food-- and there was plenty of it, tureens and dishes and platters passing round and round. By the time the night thickened and all the stars were out, shining like jewels in the heavens, they were all on their second helpings and the roast looked well on its way to becoming a heap of bare bones.

He sat back contentedly, tucking his thumbs behind his waistband. A bit of smoke would go down well, but he didn't have his pipe or his pouch of weed along with him, so it would have to wait. He felt entirely too full to go wandering off home to get it, so he contented himself with a fresh mug of ale and the scent of Dwarvish tobacco, borne to him on the breeze as a few of them drew out stubby pipes with wide clay bowls.

Not all were smoking, though; three Dwarves armed with shovels and hoes advanced on the oven and began raking out coals, scooping them into iron scuttles and carrying them out to the center of the green, where they dumped them in a pile and then laid fresh wood on top. The blaze leaped up merrily, sending long fingers licking towards the stars.

Sam's sisters leaped up, locking arms and dancing about, and the Gaffer began to clap and croak them a tune; soon they were dancing a reel and making a good job of it for all they had no lads and only the three of them.

Mr. Bilbo laughed, fumbling for his pipe and turning to watch the girls, and Frodo sent Sam a small, secret smile down the length of the table before reaching for his own.

"Sam, come on!" Daisy commanded, whirling past. "We need a fourth to do this one proper-like!"

Reluctantly Sam let himself be chivvied into the dance, even though he would much rather have sat comfortably and let his dinner settle. The summer evening still held a bit of sultry heat, and the fire fair made Sam swelter as he and his sisters swung and capered around it. He was soon wringing wet with sweat again, and his dinner had him puffing as he handed May off to Marigold and took Daisy on in her stead.

One of the dwarves went to the cart and pulled out a burlap sack draped over something round; when he pulled it off he held a drum as wide as the span of Sam's arms. He quickly caught the Gaffer's rhythm, the low notes of the drum murmuring under the heel of his hand, and sharper notes coming as his fingers struck the hide. Sam's heels came down sharp with the note, and he lifted May right off the ground; she squealed with delight and spun away, coming right back, her skirts flying up near far enough to show her knees, making the Gaffer scowl a bit.

One of the Dwarves had a harp, and when he began tuning it Frodo jumped up to join the dance, which let Sam stand aside to catch his breath. Frodo was already laughing when they caught him up, his slim form darting through the figures of the dance, first lit golden by the flames, then silhouetted dark against them. Sam found his abandoned ale and took a swallow, glad of its cool wetness on his dry tongue.

He spared a glance towards Mr. Bilbo, who sat with Balin, their heads together, bent over their pipes. Twin curls of smoke wafted up, and Bilbo tilted his head back to blow a thoughtful smoke ring, watching it rise. Balin took his pipe from his mouth, talking so low Sam couldn't hear him, his expression intent; Bilbo's own countenance showed little.

The master's hooded, neutral look made Sam decide he'd rested long enough, so he got up and started gathering crockery, hauling it over to the oven, where a kettle of wash water still hung over the remaining embers, steaming hot. He got to work right away scrubbing plates and bowls and flagons, forks and spoons, knives and glassware. Two of the Dwarves came to help, drying the dishes with clean cloths and hauling them all over to stack them up carefully in the cart for return to the smial.

By the time Sam finished and poured out the kettle, putting out the last of the fire, Frodo was back at the table with a mug, and two dwarves were out in the field, awkwardly trying to follow the steps of the dance as Marigold demonstrated them. The rest of the Dwarves were gathered in a noisy knot, holding clarinets and wood flutes, fiddles and viols, making a rather tuneless racket. The Gaffer stood up and beckoned to the girls, tossing Sam a speculative look. To Sam's relief, his old dad didn't crook a finger at him, but settled for gathering up the girls instead. When he had them all, he went near Mr. Bilbo, taking off his cap and waiting till he was noticed.

"Thank you, sir, for a fine evening and as good a bit o'mutton as I ever set tooth in. But I'd best be getting the lasses home; it's past middle-night." He ducked his head first at Mr. Bilbo, then at Balin.

"And thank you, Master Hamfast, for all your hard work-- and your daughters'." Bilbo inclined his head with gracious dignity, every inch the squire. Satisfied, the Gaffer herded the girls towards the hedge, ignoring Marigold's loud and indignant protests that she wasn't tired yet.

Sam all but held his breath until they were gone, half-afraid the Gaffer would turn back for him, or that Mr. Bilbo would give him a frown and send him scurrying, but he was safe, for the moment at least. He found himself a seat tucked up against the roots of the tall oak in the center of the field and curled himself comfortably to rest; his feet were aching from the long day of work.

When the Gaffer had gone, Sam hid his relief behind a swallow of ale, listening as the Dwarven drum began a slow murmur, almost a heartbeat in the night. A ground mist had begun to rise, seeping from the shadows and collecting in the valley; its feathery arms folded around the hedge. The mist blocked out the few lights from Hobbiton and the Row, making the stars grow hazy and indistinct above. Again it felt to Sam almost as though he'd wandered underground and lost himself there, and a shiver crept up his spine.

He turned his eyes to Frodo, seeking the security of a familiar smile, and found a frown instead. Frodo now sat by Balin, listening to his speech with Bilbo, and his mug seemed forgotten on the table.

A low rumble-- one voice taking up a low and rolling melody, then another and another joining, made the hair on the back of Sam's neck prickle and stand up. He had heard the song before (or a version of it) sung by Bilbo himself, who loved to tell of his adventures to any who would listen. But the Dwarven voices made it seem strange, wonderful and terrible at once:

_Far under the misty mountains' gloom_   
_We carry long-appointed doom:_   
_We must away ere break of day_   
_To take the halls of Khazad-Dûm._

_The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,_   
_While hammers fell like ringing bells_   
_In places deep, where dark things sleep,_   
_In hollow halls beneath the fells._

_For ancient king and elvish lord_   
_There many a gleaming mithril hoard_   
_They shaped and wrought, and light they caught_   
_To hide in gems on hilt of sword._

_On silver necklaces they strung_   
_The flowering stars, on crowns they hung_   
_The dragon-fire, in twisted wire_   
_They meshed the light of moon and sun._

_Far over the misty mountains tall_   
_We heed our fathers' dying call._   
_We must away, ere break of day,_   
_To claim our long-forgotten hall._

_Goblets they carved there for themselves_   
_And harps of gold; where no man delves_   
_There lay they long, and many a song_   
_Was sung unheard by men or elves._

_The mountain throne once more is freed!_   
_O! wandering folk, the summons heed!_   
_Come haste! Come haste! across the waste!_   
_For we of kin again have need._

_The sword is sharp, the spear is long,_   
_The arrow swift, the will is strong;_   
_The heart is bold that looks on gold;_   
_The dwarves no more shall suffer wrong._

_Now call we over mountains cold,_   
_'We shall retake the caverns old!'_   
_For honor fight, our ancient right,_   
_Our fathers' blood, and Durin's gold._

_Far over the misty mountains grim_   
_To dungeons deep and caverns dim_   
_We must away, ere break of day,_   
_To win our rightful home from him!_

_The king will come unto his hall_   
_Under Caradhras cruel and tall._   
_For Durin's Bane must needs be slain,_   
_And ever so our foes shall fall!_

Sam realized his mouth was hanging open, so he shut it with a snap. The dwarves had made a ring about the fire, shuffling their feet in a slow and intricate pattern as they chanted. Their heels stamped the grass, raising puffs of dust and ash, and their rough, callused palms slapped against their chests at the end of every verse.

Balin sat straight next to Bilbo, firelight gleaming in his eyes, and Sam was struck at once by his carriage-- the pride in the set of his jaw and his carefully-kempt beard in its snow-white braids, the heaviness of the fists that lay clenched on his knees, and the sturdiness of his shoulders despite his age. Like a King he seemed to Sam then, proud and stern and old.

Of a sudden, Sam understood the song was not sung in jest-- this was no pleasure trip for the Dwarves, but a gathering of friend and kin to set out upon another desperate quest, one from which they might not return. But surely they had not come for Mr. Bilbo, not as old as he was?

Sam turned anxious eyes on Frodo, who sat at Bilbo's left hand, but he had lowered his eyes to examine his pipe. Frodo's mouth was set tight, and his jaw stern. Bilbo turned to him then and spoke; Frodo lifted his gaze to meet Bilbo's and answered quietly, but his troubled expression did not ease.

Sam would have given a good deal to overhear the conversation, and he was just about to sidle closer on the pretext of filling his mug when the notes of a harp fell of a sudden, low and rippling. They echoed like a cascade of water droplets into a pool hidden deep in a mountain's heart, and with it the sober song changed, growing faster. A horn struck up a valiant theme and the dwarves followed it, abandoning their chant for dancing, catching hands and swinging one another out in a design that varied like the lattice of a snow-crystal. They wove their steps like the jewelers' wire of which they sang, darting in and out of the simple circle and arranging their hasty steps in a pattern Sam's eyes could scarce follow.

By and by the chant resumed, but in a tongue Sam did not know. He forgot his ale in his wonder, sitting up straight; the words rumbled and rolled like thunder across the field, rising and falling as the Dwarves drew near to the fire, near enough it seemed it would singe their beards, and then pulled back to the stretch of their arms as they circled it. But each time the song fell, it did not fall so far as it had the last time, rising slowly towards some urgent peak that frightened Sam even as it exhilarated him. He held his breath, watching the tips of their boots all but touch the embers as they pressed in.

The drum throbbed, and iron sang-- hammers tapped together, ringing clear and true, and the Dwarven voices rose again as the circle broke, but they did not stop this time, even as one of their number fell back and ran, the song rising to a shout as he flung himself forward in a dreadful leap, right across the blazing fire!

Sam himself gave a shout, startled, and filled with fear, but the Dwarf was across the fire, and he seemed unharmed. He joined the dance again; the song had fallen, only to build once more, and the next time Sam was not so startled as a Dwarf leaped headlong across the flames and tumbled in the grass beyond. Then another followed, and it seemed the fire rose to seek him, licking around his boots and threatening to kindle in his cloak.

Sam laid his hand upon his chest, his mouth dry and his eyes wide. Red fire lit the Dwarven faces, which gleamed with sweat. They chanted and sang as each one of them made his leap, and then they pressed close, so close Sam was sure they would be burned, arms rising and falling as though they would strike the fire, and he could not tell whether they were meant to bless it with the forge-hammer, or curse it with the axe. Their booted feet kicked at the coals, and sparks flew; none seemed to notice even when the sparks winked out against their arms and faces.

Through it all, Balin sat regal and proud, the rough round of wood and the simple trestle table all the throne he needed, until the circle parted in twain and he rose, sauntering towards the fire as though he would walk through it, unhurried and unheeding. He stood at its verge, lifting his face; his white braids shone red as blood and his voice was deep as he chanted, and then leaped without a running start-- a mighty leap, flames curling about his ankles, his heels barely clearing the embers, mantle kindling as it fell, wreathing around him in a nimbus of fire.

But he kept his balance, standing proud, ignoring the flames, and his kin and subjects slapped them from his garment as he turned and stared into the fire, his voice lifted over all the others as he raised his hands and chanted, low and grave.

The others stepped back, and when they returned, they bore vessels of water; Sam had been so rapt he had not seen them fetch the water, and did not know when it had been drawn.

When Balin fell silent at last, raising his arms to the Moon, the Dwarves lifted the vessels and drowned the fire, its hiss like a hundred angry snakes, the smoke of its death thick and choking, and the music of their chanting fell silent with a final hushed chord.

Sam remembered his ale then, and took a shaky swallow, his eyes watering from the smoke. When it cleared, the Dwarves were bundling the trestles into the cart, and shoveling the dead coals back into the oven, where they belonged. Mr. Bilbo had his hand on Frodo's shoulder, and was speaking kindly, though too low to be overheard through the bustle. Sam could not see Frodo's face, but the set of his shoulders spoke of distress, and he interrupted Bilbo frequently.

There would be no chance to sneak away tonight with his master for the chance of a cuddle and to explain his promise to Mr. Bilbo, that was plain.

Sam got up and helped with the clearing away, and when the cart was laden and the Dwarves had all tramped away up the Hill taking Bilbo and Frodo with them, he went back to his own smial and let himself in.

Sam lay awake in his bed for a long while, the chanting of the Dwarves echoing in his mind and the memory of firelight flickering across the insides of his eyelids. He only fell asleep with the coming of dawn.


	55. Cherry Harvest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cherries are picked and Rosie is on the make, but nobody is sent away to Tighfield.

The light is strange in Sam's room when he wakes. He blinks and squints, finding it brighter than usual. He has no window, so he can't look out and check the weather, but this has happened before on rare occasions, so he knows what is wrong even before he hears his sisters clattering about in the living area rather than the kitchen. He's slept half the day through, or more. He did it before when he was younger and would occasionally fall ill, and he's even done it a time or two after Lithe-parties since he came of an age to have ale. 

The Gaffer's querulous old voice is what seems to have wakened him; it is raised in the parlour. Sam listens for a few drowsy moments to his father chewing over a dubious point of housekeeping with May, who is being more than usually pert-- or, as the Gaffer would have it, impertinent. 

Sam sighs and rolls over to settle again for a few fleeting moments, enjoying the luxury of his bed at the late hour, but already feeling guilty for his laziness. The Gaffer will have kept back a share of stern words for him, like as not. 

He heaves himself out of bed after a moment and wanders stumble-footed over to the basin of cold water that awaits him, dousing his neck and head and blinking blearily into the polished scrap of tin that serves as his mirror. He'd best get himself dressed and be about his business; the gardens up on the Hill are passing their early summer peak and heading into the troublesome in-between period when the late spring flowers die off and the midsummer flowers haven't quite come out proper yet. 

Sam towels cold water off his head, sputtering a little, and folds up his nightshirt to put on his pillow. He reaches for his working-breeches, the pair he wears in the garden, and pulls them over his hips, cinching them tight with a bit of rope. 

The flowering gardens won't be at their best again till early autumn, though it don't matter much to a practical eye, for the kitchen garden is coming in and all over the Shire, fruit is ripening on vine and tree. The crops have had both rain and Sun in good measure, and in return for it have yielded up a bounty that promises a mad dash for working hobbits throughout the Shire from now till frost. Every hand will have to set itself to work at the picking and the washing and the slicing and the cooking and the preserving that must be done. Even the younger gentlefolk will lend a hand, supervising the workers and pitching in to work where they are needed most. 

"Samwise slugabed, do 'ee think 'ee have naught to do but roll around the whole day long?" The Gaffer's rough knuckle raps at his door impatiently. 

"I'm up." Sam snatches his gardening shirt, which is stained with more soil than even Daisy can wash out, and is worn thin at the elbows. He comes out, still dragging it down over his head. 

"Have your bit of porridge right quick, then, and get on down to the Cottons' to muster up hands to work in the orchard. The gardens will have to wait. I didn't say aught yesterday given it was market day and Mr. Bilbo was feasting and all, but the cherries are in and the fruit is ripe and nigh on falling. The whole harvest will go off if we don't look sharp! Mr. Bilbo's had half the village boys out there beating tin pans and throwing stones for a fortnight, but they can't keep the birds off forever." 

Sam freezes for a moment at the thought of the cherry orchard. For one reason and another, he has not returned to it during harvest time since the terrible summer when he was sent away to Tighfield. He forces himself to move again quickly, but to no avail. The Gaffer has noticed, and it puts him in mind of the very memory Sam would most have him forget. 

"And none of your foolishness this year, Samwise. You're a growed lad now, and I won't have you making calf-eyes at Mr. Frodo while the harvest is on." His brows draw down in a scowl. "I can't be trapessing all the way down to Bywater this year, neither; you'll have to be about it yourself. But if I hear a word of you shirking or mooning about, you'll learn I'm not too old to take a strap to your backside, and you're not too old to bend over and take it!" 

Sam doesn't answer him. Instead he picks up his bowl of cold porridge and spoons it down standing up. He meets the Gaffer's eye steadily, heart pounding with indignation and for a wonder his old dad looks away first, wandering over to chivvy Marigold as she sweeps the hearth. 

Sam is glad to rinse his bowl and go outside where he can be away from his dad's temper; it seems the older he gets the sharper his tongue grows. Sam wonders sometimes if the years are wearing it away like a whetstone. 

He snatches a battered old straw hat from its peg by the door and takes a shortcut across the fields towards the Cotton's. The night mists are long gone and the day has blown up crisp and clear, cooler than usual for this season. The corn is tall and sturdy, coming up around his waist, and he realizes that the pale spring-green of the fields has already turned dark and vigorous under the strong Sun. The ears of the grain are all but full when he pinches them between his thumb and forefinger. Before he knows it they'll have turned yellow, and then the fields will burnish themselves golden-brown. Soon after, it will be cut, threshed, and winnowed. The hay will be stacked, and the grain will be ground into flour down at the mill. Then the golden stubble will turn grey with the onset of winter. 

Time is flowing away, and as the knowledge strikes him, Sam feels a pang of confusion and sadness he can't quite name. He is young yet, though, so he puts it aside and keeps trotting along as quick as his legs will carry him. 

At the farm, Tom and Jolly and Nick are ready waiting, playing at mumblety-peg in the yard behind the byre. Nibs is off on one of the plow-ponies, fetching the rest of the lads who work the harvest for Mr. Bilbo. Jolly pulls his knife out of the ground and wipes its blade on his breeches before folding it up and slipping it in his pocket. 

"We'd near reckoned you wouldn't be coming, Sam, but Mr. Bilbo didn't come by neither, so we didn't know whether to start or stay." 

"We'll be starting." Sam puffs for breath; he's come on as fast as he could to make up for time lost. "Mr. Bilbo had a late night of it; likely enough he won't be out for hours yet. But the Gaffer says the harvest won't wait no longer." 

"That it won't!" Tom slapped his back. "Get yourself a bit of water while we wait for Nibs and the lads; there's a bucket new-drawn at the well. Rosie's cooked up the last of the winter sausages and there's fresh bread in the oven; she put a bit up special thinking you'd be coming by. Step in and have a bite; you look like you need it." 

Sam bites his lip but does as Tom has bidden, rapping self-consciously at the back door. Rosie answers, hands all over flour, and greets him in a flutter, patting at her wayward curls and getting flour everywhere, then realizing what she's done and flushing all the different shades of red any autumn maple could think of turning. 

The house is bigger than Sam's family hole, bigger and rather more like a Big Person's house than a cozy little hobbit dwelling. The Cottons are prosperous farmer-folk. They have a bit of brass to rub together-- more so than the Gamgees. Enough for Tom and his sons to fetch in lumber and build a low-slung house. Their old family smial is a root-cellar now. But they don't have the Gamgees' pride, and Sam is well aware that even the Cottons ain't rich enough to live in a proper smial done up fancy, like Mr. Bilbo up at Bag End. 

While Rosie fusses over washing her hands, Sam takes off his hat and watches Mrs. Cotton pulling bread out of the stone baking-oven built in to the far outside wall. She reaches in through slots in the wall with a big wooden paddle, quickly sliding it between the floury loaves and the baking shelf, and pulls the bread out, deftly transferring it to a table before putting the paddle back through the slot for the next flat, round loaf. The kitchen is as hot as blazes, what with the coals glowing in the ovens, and her bun of hair has come partly loose at the back as she works. Tendrils stick to her sweating throat in loose waves. 

Sam feels a momentary pang, as though his stomach were rising and trying to take the place of where his heart ought to be-- or maybe the other way 'round. For that moment, he misses his mother so much it makes his eyes sting. He is minded of how he used to sit and watch her at her baking. He was not yet old enough to knead dough when she passed, and so he never learned the ways of it. 

"Sit down, Sam, and Rosie will bring you a bit of fresh milk up from the cool. There's bacon and sausage, butter and jam, and cold ham and fruit." Mrs. Cotton never pauses in her working. Sam takes a seat next to the kitchen counter, choosing a spot where he'll be out of the way and well away from the hot ovens. He flaps the neck of his shirt, feeling sweat break out on him-- not entirely from the heat. Rosie's eyes are on him, intent and warm, making him squirm uncomfortably in a way that all the ovens in the Shire couldn't manage. 

From the far corner of the oven, Mrs. Cotton lifts out a smaller loaf, and Rosie is ready, waiting to catch it on a plate. Sam turns the color of ripe raspberries himself when he sees the loaf; the dough has been rolled into ropes and twined in a love knot. Rosie puts it down before him shyly, uncovering a plate of pan-fried bacon and tomatoes to go with it, and fair runs out of the kitchen to be fetching the milk and butter. 

"Mrs. Cotton, I'm not here to court--" Sam starts miserably, but a shake of her head stops him. 

"Now, Sam-lad, she knows as well as any what happened with you and Jolly. It's how young lads sow their oats without getting themselves into trouble. Lads play with lads; lads marry lasses. Don't be foolish. You're barely in your tweens, and there's plenty of time yet to get your running about over with and decide you want to settle down proper-like and grow a family." 

Sam manages to turn even redder, staring down at the piping-hot bread on his plate and wondering if it's possible for someone to die of embarrassment. Even amidst his mortification the smell of the bacon and tomatoes manages to make his stomach growl. His good hobbit-sense tells him he can hardly refuse the food without giving insult to those as made it special for him. When Mrs. Cotton lays a fork and a knife down next to his plate, he's so glad of having something to do that he hardly thinks twice before picking them up and starting to eat. 

He's very nearly stopped blushing by the time Rosie returns, all of a dither, and puts down a tall mug of sweet cold milk and a big pat of butter in front of him. The butter is of course from the Cottons' own cows; anyone in Hobbiton or Bywater would recognize the print of a flower in blossom from Mrs. Cotton's hand-carved wooden butter-mold. Sam's knife is the first to touch the fresh pat, and he carves off a nice portion, spreading it on the bread. His mouth waters as he watches the butter melt and sink into the floury crust. 

Rosie sits down, watching him raptly as he eats, which nearly puts him off in spite of how good it tastes. However, his bit of cold porridge is hardly a memory compared to the good spicy sausage and bacon, so he avoids her eye and keeps at it, spreading more butter on his bread. 

"You eat up, Sam, you've a hard day's work ahead." She pushes the jam-pot closer to his hand. Sam glances up with alarm. Rosie sounds almost... motherly, and somehow near as predatory as a wolf, all at the same time. He shuffles his feet. Here he's gone and met her eye without meaning to! He snatches his gaze back down to his plate. 

"Do you like a cherry pie better, or a cherry crumble, Sam?" 

Sam winces, warning clamoring in his ears like a horn-call, but there's naught to do except eat as quick as may be and hope he can escape with some thread of his pride. 

"Not that it matters. I can make both just as quick as thinking. Say you'll come by, Sam, and taste the baking. You'll tell me what you think, won't you?" 

Sam mumbles an indistinct answer with his mouth full and shovels down the rest of his second breakfast as fast as he may. By the time he's finished his food and managed to escape from Rosie's questions and her fussing with his hat, Nibs is back in the yard and clambering off the plow-pony, and a crowd of lads are not far behind, armed with ladders and baskets, drawing sledges, and hand-waggons to carry off the harvest. 

Tom steps aside and lets Sam lead the way down the lane until they reach the orchards. They dither for a moment before the gate, which isn't locked, and any one of them could open it. Sam blinks and steps forward-- in the past, his Gaffer or Farmer Cotton has always unlatched it and told the workers how the harvest should commence. But this time the job has been left empty. 

Inside, they dither again, milling like sheep. Sam shoots a glance at Tom, who shrugs, and then clears his throat, diffident. "All right, lads," he ventures, and they all look to him, blinking. 

"Where shall we put the carts, Sam?" Jolly has trundled a large square barrow all the way from the farm, his strong square hands wrapped tight on the handles, and he's sweating. His eyes are calm; he trusts Sam's judgment. 

Sam knows what his Gaffer would say, and so he takes a breath and says it. "Over there by the staddles, I reckon." He waits while the hobbits obey, surprised that nobody raises a protest against his taking charge. Perhaps they think he has status up at Bag End, and that gives him a right to speak for Mr. Bilbo. 

There is a dreadful racket of birds cawing hoarsely and lads rattling tin pans or beating them with spoons-- the harvest is dead-ripe, and that's a fact. Sam lifts his voice to be heard over it as the lads return, each with his sack over his shoulder and a basket in his hand. "Now, the fruit's set fair to fall, so some of you will be picking, and others will be picking up. Don't mix the kinds; each kind to its own basket or barrow. We'll save the tree-picked fruit for the market and take the windfalls for making preserves. Those four waggons on this side of the tree will do for the windfalls." Sam gestures to show which half he means. "We'll save the other ones for the tree-picking. Sort the windfalls and pile up any that's spoiled, mind!" 

The lads listen, arranging things as he directs. They line the rough baskets with clean cloths and most of them scamper up ladders into the trees. Sam takes his place among the ground-pickers, secretly glad of the rise in his status, which permits it, for he has never enjoyed perching atop a ladder, no matter how good the fruit. 

In short order, sacks and baskets are well on their way to being filled and the soles of Sam's feet are stained purple with the remains of cherries that ripened early and have spoiled on the ground. Not that there are many of those-- as part of their wages, the lads who scare the birds can eat their fill of the windfalls as long as they keep out of the trees and don't shake them. Every year of Sam's life, including a few when he too beat a pan and threw stones at the crows, the village lads have kept the grass picked clean of fallen cherries as soon as they grew ripe enough to eat. But there are plenty that fall as the boys on the ladders go about their business, and they must be gathered and saved as well. 

Presently there is a rumbling of cart-wheels, and Sam lifts his head. It's Mr. Bilbo's buggy coming along the road, and both Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo are sitting on the bench. Sam straightens his back, sighing and knuckling the hollow of his spine, and since he seems to be in charge he goes to meet them, opening the gate so the pony can draw the buggy into the orchard. 

Mr. Bilbo's keen eyes wander over the busy workers; he hands the reins to Frodo and tucks his hand in to the pocket of his weskit. Sam suddenly realizes what is expected of him. He takes his hat off his head and lines it with his kerchief, as he has seen his father do every year as he was growing up. He reaches into one of the worker's sacks, choosing a lad who is picking under a tree that makes cherries as are best for eating fresh, and takes out a double handful of the fruit. He fills his hat and carries it to Mr. Bilbo, lifting the makeshift bowl up for him so that he may have a taste, if he likes. 

Mr. Bilbo takes a cherry for himself and hands the hat to Frodo, who wraps the reins around his wrist and takes it. Mr. Bilbo bites into a plump ripe cherry and spits the pit in his hand, letting it drop with a fastidious flick of his wrist, too proper spit it straight onto the ground like a working hobbit would. 

"Perfectly ripe and sweet as you can ask for." Mr. Bilbo approves when he has finished swallowing. "Are you separating them?" 

"Windfalls for bottling go in those carts on the left and tree-picked go in the right to be hauled off to market," Sam answers promptly. "That was some of the windfalls I gave you, begging your pardon." 

"That's fine." Bilbo nods, satisfied. "Will your sisters put up some of the fruit for Bag End?" 

"How many jars would you be wanting?" Sam asks promptly; his sisters have performed this service for Mr. Bilbo for some years now, and his family always receives a share of the fruit for their pains. 

"You're fond of cherries, aren't you, Frodo lad?" Mr. Bilbo looks aside and his voice softens. Frodo nods without looking up; the hat is still full of fruit between his hands. Sam realizes Frodo has been silent all this while, which is unlike him. Sam's stomach knots tight with concern. Mayhap he did the wrong thing trotting off home last night without trying to speak to Frodo first; something is plainly troubling him, and the night's rest doesn't seem to have done him any good. Though he loves fresh cherries as much as any lad, his lips have no stain of cherry-juice on them. 

"I think perhaps eighty jars, Sam." It is perhaps half as much as Mr. Bilbo usually asks for, which makes Sam's ears perk with dismay. "No, make it a hundred. And take as many for yourselves, with my compliments." 

Though the share is in its normal proportion, the request is still far less than usual. Sam thinks of the Dwarves, and again he worries-- if Mr. Bilbo were to go, then the usual level of stores will not be needed up at the smial. 

"Cherries will be wanted for the Party." There are lines of strain and dark circles under Frodo's eyes when he lifts them and speaks. "Our relations will eat as many pies as there is fruit to fill them." 

"Oh yes." Bilbo harrumphs, looking flustered. "I'd all but forgotten that. How dreadfully foolish of me, planning to sell fruit only to have to buy it back later! Triple that request, Samwise, again with the same portion going to your family. It will be more than you need, but do as you like with them." He lowers his voice, confidential to Sam's ear. "It's to be a very special party this year, Sam my lad. Very special indeed. Frodo is coming of age, and together we will be a hundred and forty-four. Isn't that curious? I think it's fitting that we should celebrate such a momentous occasion." 

"Yes, sir," Sam responds politely, but privately he doesn't believe Mr. Frodo looks particularly eager to celebrate. It's curious and no mistake. The strangeness of it waters the seed of worry that planted itself in Sam's heart when he heard the Dwarves a planning war over food and fire. 

A noise catches Sam's ear just then, as though his thought has summoned it up: low and haunting, the sound of Dwarves singing in a quiet rumble. Sam squints and spots a small party of them coming along the Road, fewer than a dozen. They have come down from Bag End and are taking the east Road towards Buckland; they march along steadily but more swiftly on their long legs than a shorter hobbit could easily pace. Their song has a rhythm of walking, and they look neither left nor right as they march. Sam's eyes fly to the back seat of the buggy, but Mr. Bilbo has no traveling gear stowed there. He is not going with them, at least not today, and Sam heaves a sigh of relief to see it. 

The hobbits stop their work to watch round-eyed, faces peeping from behind trunks and past sprays of leaves. These Bywater lads are not used to seeing Dwarves; even the Hobbiton boys watch in wonder. Sam steps over to the orchard fence to fare them well, holding his hand to his breast politely, though he has no cap in it. Balin never pauses, but he raises a hand to Bilbo in sober parting. As the Dwarves march past, Dori swings his head aside to give Sam a quick wink and wave, and Sam returns it. 

By his counting, there are still a brace of Dwarves left up in Bag End. He is surprised that these have left so soon, and that they did not all go together, but it isn't his business to judge or ask. He looks down at their broad footprints in the dust of the Road and feels a pang of regret at their going; he would have liked to hear more of their singing, and to learn the ways of their dance. 

When he turns, he realizes the eyes have all swung to him, Mr. Bilbo's included. 

Sam straightens his spine and takes a deep breath, looking about. Mr. Bilbo isn't going away with the Dwarves-- not yet, at any rate-- and though Mr. Frodo's face tells that he doesn't know it yet, Sam finally has a hope that all their waiting has not been in vain. Well-being rises in him unexpectedly, a sense that his world is right. Confidence flows through Sam's veins from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. This is his place; this is his job, and he is equal to it. The orchards are his in every way that counts; he can feel it in his bones. He has the charge of them, and he will bring in the harvest. 

"Back to work there, lads! The day won't wait." Sam turns a stern gaze on the lads, friend and stranger alike. If he hears a note of the Gaffer's impatience in his voice, well, then so be it: the lads startle a bit and get back to the cherries. 

"Well-said," Bilbo chuckles, for an instant so much like the merry, carefree Bilbo that Sam remembers from his childhood that he can hardly believe his kindly old master is capable of being stern. 

Frodo still has Sam's hat in his hands, looking into it as though it holds mysteries far deeper than cherries, and Sam is moved by his forlorn air. Mr. Bilbo's good humor leaves him bold enough to speak. 

"Mr. Frodo." Sam says quietly. "If you please, just tie up the corners of that kerchief and take those away with you. You can save them for later, when you have time for them." His eyes meet Frodo's for only a split second, but it is long enough for Sam to believe that Frodo understands his message-- including the parts of it he didn't say. 

Frodo smiles: a little faint, formal, but not without pleasure. "Yes, I think I will," he says, and his hands make quick work of it before returning the hat to Sam with a twist of his wrist, sending it spinning across the air between them and into Sam's waiting hand, which closes easily on its brim. 

Frodo sets the cherries away carefully behind the bench, handling them gently, as though they are very precious. Finished, he clucks to the pony, which starts up awkward-like and backs clumsily as the cart rolls slowly back down the incline and in to the Road. Then he slaps the reins lightly against its flanks and he and Mr. Bilbo go off towards Bywater. 

Sam draws a deep breath, balanced between satisfaction and worry, then gets back to work, deciding that all is well. 

This year, he will not be sent away to Tighfield.


	56. Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam does more than he ought.

Sam is another two weeks into the summer season before he truly realizes how much that day in the cherry orchard has set the tone for the harvest-- his Gaffer was evidently satisfied with all reports, and somehow it seems Sam has been granted a deal of his father's authority when it comes to the harvest. Unless the Gaffer himself turns out-- but Sam is surprised with how little his old dad chooses to do that, puttering about the smial and taking care of small things thereabouts. Not that he isn't busy-- he keeps himself going from morning till night mending hinges and putting new coats of whitewash on the earthen walls and setting new tiles in the kitchen floor, where a few of the old ones have broken over time, or replacing rotted staves in the washtub Sam and his sisters use for all-over baths. 

"There don't never seem to be no shortage of work to be done, no matter how much a body spends time doing what's there," the Gaffer tells Sam, shooing him out for his morning's work in the apple orchard, where the midseason apples are coming in. The girls are going too, dressed in their lightest work-wear, for today they are boiling apple butter next to the orchard and will spend the day working a wooden paddle through a large iron pot suspended over a cooking fire. Sam wipes his brow and squints up at the Sun, which smiles merrily down on him, not letting up a jot. It's going to be a hot day even away from the fire. 

Sam has hardly seen Frodo for the last two weeks, unless business visits count. Every day Bilbo checks the day's harvest, taking a sample for himself and Frodo, and every time Frodo is with him, seeming quiet and faraway. It is a ritual older even than Sam's Gaffer. 

As the fruit is picked, sold, and preserved, Sam keeps careful tallies of how much there was and what was done with it, and who worked, and for how long. He writes them down at the end of the day on to pieces of parchment scroll. That is something he has done for his Gaffer ever since Mr. Bilbo learned him his letters, and now he does it on his own account. 

These things he keeps to present to Mr. Bilbo; they are the record of the Baggins land's yield and of who helped to bring it in, so that each worker can be rewarded according to his labor-- or hers. Sam knows that this is not only important to Mr. Bilbo, but to the other hobbits as well-- it is a trust that enables the system of life in Hobbiton to continue smoothly, and this year it is all his. 

Sam sets all the hobbits to work when he gets to the orchard, a little annoyed with their indolence. He would start in to work when he arrived; it's not like they can't see the fruit hanging on the boughs, and the day ain't getting no younger while they sit about and wait for someone to tell them there's work as needs doing. He resolves to be up tomorrow morning by first light, and out here before the Sun peeps over the horizon. 

Resolve though he may, Sam has to cover his own mouth unexpectedly when his jaw stretches so wide in a yawn that it cracks before he can shut it again. He shakes his head, scowling, and trots about checking ladders to see they're grounded, and making sure nobody is stealing a catnap up in the boughs. "Here, Brandy Hayward!" He has found his first shirker-- not unexpected; Brandy has a fondness for his namesake, and Sam can see the outline of a flask in his hip pocket. "You climb down from there and set about changing the picking bags." He points towards a heap of burlap sacks near the middle of the orchard. "Empty everybody's sack and give them a fresh one, then start over again." That will keep him out where Sam can see him, plus giving him something that won't allow much time for tippling on the sly-- and it will keep him safely off the tops of ladders, should he somehow find the time in spite of all that Sam can do. 

Sam sets another lad to picking from Brandy's tree and makes a second round, nodding to the girls where they sit peeling and coring apples for the cookpot. Rosie is among them, and she dimples at Sam; she has managed to peel her present apple without breaking the strip, and it hangs near to the ground in a brilliant display of housewifely competence that she is making certain Sam notices. That much is apparent by the way she flourishes her knife and lets the peeling dangle as she finishes with the apple. 

Sam tuts to himself; he'd rather she finished the apples fast than watch her peel them so prettily; the longer it takes the apples to be finished, the more time Daisy and May must take with rendering the butter. 

After that he stays a bit away from the girls, at least as much as he can while he's attending to the workers in that part of the orchard and lending a hand at the work himself. He spends the morning watching the workers, hauling bushel baskets of apples and dumping them for peeling, helping bandage a cut finger, or chewing a bit of tobacco into a salve to daub on to one of the younger lads' fresh bee sting. By lunchtime he's more than weary, glad for a bit of time to sit and gnaw his heel of bread and wedge of cheese. 

Ale would go down well, but it would make him drowsy, so he avoids the hogshead on the wagon and settles for a draught of water from the well instead. As he draws it, an ache in his shoulder flares with a bit of extra burn on the top of tired muscles, reminding him with its flash and glow of unpleasantness that his day will not be done when the Sun sets. 

Sam wipes his brow and looks up into the brassy blue of the sky; it has not rained since the harvest began in earnest. In a way that is good- -most of the crops are at a stage where they do not yet need the rain, or would even be harmed by it, but Sam's life would be easier if it did rain a bit, for the gardens up at Bag End are not as forgiving of drought as fruit trees. Every day the kitchen garden requires water, and so do the herbs-- plus Sam is caring for the mallows and most of the rose bushes, the clematis, and the tall purple coneflowers that the Widow Rumble harvests every autumn to grind up and make into a tea that keeps hobbits from catching cold come winter. 

None of them can wait; all are thirsty under the Sun, and Sam tends them all when his day of harvesting is done. He has a bite of supper, then goes up the hill and carries water to them all, night after night after night, and then rises at dawn the next day. There's nobody else he trusts to do it-- nobody who isn't busy with the harvest, that is. Summer won't last forever, nor will this drought. 

And so Sam works, sturdy and solid, not indulging in the temptation of self-pity. At last the Sun goes down and the pickers go off with it, back to their cozy smials. Somewhat later, the girls finish straining the apple butter into buckets through cheesecloth and dump the dregs, and Sam drives the waggon load of it back down to the Row. Tomorrow Daisy and May will bottle the fruit, and the next day they will start their cycle all over again. 

Daisy frowns when Sam pushes back his plate and goes to the corner to take his weskit off its hook and put it on, making ready to head up the Hill, but Sam doesn't pay her no mind. She knows as well has he that he's doing what needs doing. The Gaffer is already abed; these days he goes to his bed with the chickens. Being none the wiser, he won't be having his say, neither, and that's all to the good. 

Sam is weary, but the starlit solitude is peaceful, like a balm to his tired body and mind. By the time he reaches Bag End he feels almost rested from looking up at the canopy of stars glittering in the sky. He has oiled the windlass at the well so it won't creak, and it draws a bucket of water as silent as you please, save only the faint splashing as it evens out during the draw. Sam splashes a bit more when he fills his buckets for the yoke, but those and the soft plash of water on thirsty earth are the only sounds he makes in the still of the evening. 

The night air is still and heavy, humid and still very warm. Nothing moves under the wide canopy of sky; Sam could almost believe he is the only living thing in the Shire. 

Nevertheless, some faint prickle alerts him to the presence of someone else in the night, and as he makes his second trip, he catches the faintest glimpse of a pale figure standing behind a window in Bag End-- Mr. Frodo's window. His master is watching him draw and carry the water out to the garden. 

The figure is there when he passes again, so still between the curtains that Sam quashes his impulse to nod, or wave, or touch his cap. He thinks Frodo must not want to be seen; if he did, he would push the window out or tap against the pane or give some other signal alerting Sam to his quiet presence. But he does not; he remains as he is, watching Sam pass and re-pass until the kitchen garden is watered. 

Sam hardly feels his day's work now, with the prickle of his master's gaze so solid against his skin. He goes about watering the coneflowers where they hang over the fence and almost into the Road. He draws nearer to the smial as he goes about, portioning half a bucket to each of the rose bushes. 

When he goes to tend the thirsty mallows by the very edge of the smial, Frodo's window is standing open. A curtain is caught on the breeze and lifted out towards the garden. Frodo stands very still behind it, unmoving. A gleam of moonlight catches his eyes as Sam passes. Neither of them speak. Sam is keenly aware of his master behind him-- a faint sound of Frodo's breath passing in and out of his nostrils-- as he pours the water. 

By the time his buckets are empty, his hands are shaking. There is no light anywhere in the smial; he has already verified this. Sam lifts the yoke from his shoulders; his work is done. His heart beats so hard it feels as though he has run from Bywater all the way to the place where he stands; his lungs won't hold enough of the damp night air. He turns, and Frodo's hands are on the curved wooden windowsill, knuckles pale. 

Sam walks forward silently, his feet curling on to the ground like a hand settling tentatively on a lover's skin. There is not the faintest whisper of sound as he steps right up to the window, so near the curtain brushes his weskit, so near he can almost taste Frodo's breath on his skin. 

Promises made under the light of day are very far away now; Mr. Frodo is very near. No sound stirs except the faraway bubbling of a nightingale carrying across the fields in the perfectly still air. 

Sam reaches across the windowsill, trembling, but there is something in Mr. Frodo's expression that makes him sure of his welcome. He finds that his master's shoulders are slim and warm, the pliant cotton of his nightshirt smooth under Sam's hands. Mr. Frodo comes to him easily across the narrow barrier that separates them. His head tilts as he moves, and Sam's is already tipping to one side to meet it. 

His tongue presses past Frodo's lips, impatient, thrusting inside without waiting for an invitation. Frodo opens for him, clings against him, melting like a sun-hot peach. Sam devours him, licking hungrily at his tongue, their mouths wet as they come apart and then crush together once more. Frodo makes a tiny sound, a tiny whimper; his hand is on Sam's arm and his fingers curl around the muscle there, firm and strong. 

Sam's hands are beyond his control; they dive low and when they come up they are underneath Frodo's nightshirt, and his hands are full of Mr. Frodo's bare skin, curved around his narrow hips and pulling him up on tiptoe. Frodo's arms are locked behind Sam's neck, and the kiss crushes even deeper, bruising their mouths as they come together with a desperation born of denial carried for long years between them both. 

The windowsill is hard against Sam's sternum, an obdurate obstruction. His body hitches painfully against the wall, wanting Frodo's heat against its own. His hands clutch, kneading, his fingertips finding a soft crease that yields and lets them press deep. Frodo makes another sound, deep and throttled, in his chest; he bites Sam's lip, teeth clinging there fiercely. Sam thrusts against the wall, unable to help himself, almost mad with frustration. He frees one hand, pushing the nightshirt up and up and up until his hand is at Frodo's nape. The shirt bunches there at Frodo's shoulders; Sam cannot push it any further without breaking their mouths apart. He stops there, stroking the skin with his thumb right where there is a faint difference in texture between the pale alabaster flesh that never sees the sun and the slightly darker skin of Frodo's neck and throat. 

Gradually the kiss gentles; Frodo draws a breath that caresses Sam's face and the desperation eases, turning liquid even as it turns so hot that Sam can feel sweat coming out all over him, gathering and trickling down between his shoulder blades. Frodo shifts his feet, and suddenly there is more room for Sam's hand to explore. It slides deeper into the crease and he feels his fingertips against something he has neither touched nor seen before, and it comes to him that he could lift Frodo as easily as the yoke and buckets, lift him right out of the window and-- 

"Oh, sir, but we can't," he mumbles unhappily against Frodo's mouth, panicking a bit and pulling away; that hot, damp touch has brought him in mind of his promise. "I promised Mr. Bilbo--" the words travel only as far as Mr. Frodo's lips, barely a breath. 

"I know." Frodo's forehead touches Sam's. His eyes are dilated so far they look almost black; his lips are dark from kissing. His whisper still sounds strangled. "But soon, Sam, so soon..." as soft as the breeze, that voice, more felt than heard, its low, earnest tone kissing Sam with promise. 

Frodo leans farther forward, and his mouth finds Sam's trembling jaw, brushing against it all the way to his ear. "Soon," he bites Sam's earlobe, his breath hot, his teeth sharp. "I want..." his voice quivers every so slightly, barely there. "...that, Sam." His tongue darts into Sam's ear, and Sam's very brains threaten to leak right out the other and leave him with none. He gives a hard twitch inside his breeches, painfully tight against the wall. 

"But Mr.--" Sam protests weakly, still with Frodo's nightshirt in his hand, half pulled off him. Somehow he can't seem to loose his fingers and let the cloth go. Frodo lays three fingers over his lips, silencing him. His thumb and his last finger curl around Sam's face, holding his head still. Mr. Frodo's sharp white teeth close on his lobe again, punctuating every word. 

"Yes. That." A lick, dipping deep, then a breath. "You." 

Sam's knees falter, and a moan quivers in his chest like a trapped bird. His face burns, but his body surges again, wanting so much he nearly soils his breeches in his urgency to have what Frodo offers. 

"But Mr. Lotho said--" Sam's voice is shaking with pure want, and also with shame. 

"A curse on what Lotho Pimple said!" The words come hot and quick in his ear. "What do you think I hope for when I--" Frodo freezes, and the sudden tension in his body does what Sam's conscience couldn't accomplish on its own. Sam drops the nightshirt, and it falls back to its proper place. They step apart as Frodo listens, poised like a fallow deer on the edge of flight. Sam's arousal falters, doused by guilt like a shower of cold water. 

There is no sound, but Sam trusts Mr. Frodo's instincts, and he would rather die than be caught breaking his promise, so he scuttles a few hasty steps backward and picks up the yoke again. Sure enough, there is a dim glow waxing in the kitchen window, half-visible around the curve of the smial. With a final lingering glance at Frodo, Sam slips away to fetch more water at the well, though he has watered everything he meant to when he came. When Mr. Bilbo emerges onto the stoop with his pipe, Sam is innocently occupied with tending to the nasturtians that edge the path, pouring, his heart pounding so loud he is almost sure it can be heard in Michel Delving. 

"Stars of Elbereth, Samwise Gamgee!" Bilbo tuts and redirects his course away from the bench and out along the flagstone walk to where Sam stands with the empty bucket in his hand. "You'll work yourself to death, tending the harvest all day and watering flowers all night." He looks at Sam's face quizzically, and Sam can almost feel himself blushing. He's glad the Moon is nearly new; it doesn't reveal his burning flush of embarrassment. He can't help but fix his eyes on his toes, though; he can't meet Mr. Bilbo's eyes in his shame for having near forgot his promise. 

Mr. Bilbo doesn't suspect him, however; he shakes his head and chuckles. "There now, Samwise, don't take on so. Run along home to your bed. I know you can't be spared in the orchard, but tomorrow you can send up a likely fellow with orders. One fewer lad picking apples won't make much difference, and I won't have you working yourself to death to do both." He turns around, the matter settled in his mind. 

"Yes, Mr. Bilbo. Thank you, sir!" Sam manages, and he flees, taking his yoke and buckets with him. He can't quite be glad that his problem is solved-- there won't be no more starlit kisses, and his hands fair ache with the memory of Frodo's skin-- but he knows it's best that the opportunity to give in to temptation won't be there for neither himself nor his master. 

At any rate, Sam has much to think about: Frodo's hasty, husky speech, the half-finished words about his hopes... and Sam's own hopes, and what he wants when the waiting is ended.... 

By the time he is home Sam can hardly wait to shut and fasten the door of his little bedroom with shaking fingers and dive under the covers of his bed. His palm curls fast about himself almost before he is settled, tugging with quick, frantic strokes; his mouth is fresh and sweet with the taste of Frodo. 

In his mind he drags Frodo over the windowsill and the nightshirt catches on the evening breeze, fluttering away towards Hobbiton. His mind knows what he wants, and in it he presses Mr. Frodo's belly right up against the green grass wall of the smial and his aching cock finds that secret bit of flesh his fingertips touched so briefly. He quivers, thighs convulsing in a sharp motion that forces the length of his shaft through his fist; he is inside Frodo, and his fingers tighten. 

Sam throws his arm across his face to silence a cry as he thrusts into the tight clasp that holds him. He is helpless to restrain himself in order to quiet the rustling of the straw ticking under him. He never hears either it or the groaning of the bed frame as he pushes into his fist with sharp, hard jerks of his hips, lifting his back right off the bed, arching his body, calves and thighs and arms and back straining. He makes a choked cry, the sound of Mr. Frodo's whimper fresh in his ears, and bucks up, spasms shaking him, only his heels and his shoulders touching the bed. 

He bursts like a fallen plum, sticky sweet juice spurting out, coating his sheets all the way to his chest and matting the short, curly hair on his belly all the way up to his nipples. 

Breathing hoarsely, terrified that he has shouted out loud, Sam sinks back to the mattress, trembling, shocks of pleasure darting through him like swallows on the wing. He is weary to exhaustion, wet with sweat, and completely drained of energy; his lids are already sinking. 

He cannot even bring himself to care that he will be stuck to the sheets when he wakes, or that May will make pointed comments about Rosie Cotton when next she launders the linens.


	57. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam waits for Frodo's 33rd birthday.

Sam walks carefully on the sere earth as the season draws to its height and cart wheels rattle on the Road. Though it is only an hour or two past dawn, dust rises with each footfall and the Sun has baked the Road hot underfoot. He is conscious of each step, each breath of the sultry air, each rise and fall of the Sun and each new Moon. He feels water cool against his skin in the morning and beer tart upon his tongue in the evening. He feels the rough homespun of his shirt brushing his skin as keenly and delicately as though it were silk. Some days he thinks he has never been so aware of being alive. 

He goes through the gate at Bag End and up to the kitchen garden, where he draws his hoe through soil as soft as flour, uprooting a tiny blade of grass from its place in the shadow of a cabbage. From where he stands, he can see the Sun shining through the flowers that line the bank and catch the warm wind: nasturtians with round leaves glowing like emeralds and shot through with tiny pale veins, their lifted heads a dancing blaze of orange, yellow, and crimson. The late-summer roses flutter nearby, a few stray blossoms on a new cane that arches across the grass, begging to be tied up with the others or pruned away come winter. The light makes the petals glow like living flesh, delicate pink and pale ivory. 

It puts him in mind of Frodo, and his tongue flickers out to catch a droplet of sweat that trickles down his face and onto his lip. It's salty and warm, and he closes his eyes, his hoe coming to rest on the earth. A cart clatters up the Road and comes to a noisy halt before the Gate. Dwarven voices greet one another, low baritone words that rumble like a millstone turning. 

"You made good time from the mountain," one of them says to the other. 

"The roads are easy since the dragon fell," the newcomer chuckles. "Even the goblins are quiet in the mountains. Not that they would slow us!" 

"No indeed. Go in for a mug of ale; Bilbo will be most eager to hear this news." The newcomer is ushered inside without dropping further words for Sam to hear, and Mr. Bilbo's Dwarf-friend begins to unload the cart, swiftly but with care. 

Sam opens his eyes and puts himself back to work. 

The slow rhythm of the hoe drifts through him, and soon burns itself into his shoulders. He watches from the corner of one eye as he drifts back and forth between the tidy rows while the cart is emptied. He knows his sisters and the lads down at the Ivy Bush will want to know each detail, and though there's not a lot Sam can make of wooden crates, he stores up what he is able, lifting and chopping, just a feature of the landscape. A feature with eyes, soaking up everything that happens 'round Bag End-- especially that which touches on his Master. Not that he would babble aught to ears as he doesn't think should hear. 

The Dwarf soon finishes his task. Sam keeps his back turned to the smial as he works his way up and down the narrow rows, the rich earth a gentle pillow between his toes, feeling the windows like eyes prickling the fine hairs at the back of his neck. This is drawing near the time of morning when Frodo likes to have a cup of tea; Sam judges the new Dwarf will certainly draw him away from his reading and in to the kitchen. Its little mullioned window provides a pleasant view of the garden where Sam is working. 

Sam keeps moving steadily. He feels a keen sense of Frodo's presence at all times, no matter where he is-- and working inside and out Bag End, tending Mr. Bilbo's orchards and vineyards, Sam is in a position to know. He is always able to say just how many steps lie between himself and Bag End, or between himself and the marketplace, or the Water, or the Green Dragon, or Overhill. 

Another rattling sounds in the valley-- an empty hay-cart is trundling up the hill, with Jolly on its wooden bench. The bulk of the fruit is in, and the grain is finally ripe, standing tall and fair in the fields, each ear full. It will be a good yield this year, and waggons have been gathered in from miles around. Scythes are sharpening on whetstones and barn floors have been swept ready. Today the harvest will begin in earnest. 

Sam wipes his forehead with his sleeve and sets about mending a broken string in the bean-trellis. By the time Jolly's waggon draws up to the gate, he is finished, and he tucks the hoe in the tool shed, pushing his hat down firmly on to his head as he cuts through the side of the yard and vaults the fence. The waggon-bed has half a dozen scythes and pitchforks bundled in it, ready for service. 

Sam looks off towards Bag End for a moment, knowing it will be some days before he can come back to tend the garden. His eye catches a flicker of curtain from the parlour window, and he stops himself before he looks to see who lifted it. The wheat must be cut while the weather stays fair, cut and bound in sheaves, then haled into byres, threshed out, and winnowed. Food for the depths of winter and seed for next spring are more important than flowers, no matter how lovely. 

"Sam?" 

"Coming," he replies absently, hopping up in to the waggon-bed. The curtains are still now, and Jolly clucks to the mare. They trundle up over Hill and down in to the valley beyond.


	58. A Long-Expected Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam takes care of neglected duties.

With a thunderclap and a blinding flash, life in the Shire changed forever. 

The gnarled old branches of the Party Tree stood out against the clear sky in stark black and white like a fork of lightning had struck from the stars, and Sam's skin jumped one way while his bones jumped the other, cowering to escape the unexpected menace. 

The Party fell deadly silent, and the hobbits in the field turned as one to stare towards the explosion-- towards the Baggins Family Pavilion, their words forgotten on their tongues, and then the whole place burst into a roar as everyone began to shout at once, trying to decide what had happened. 

Sam let drop his mug, sorted out the confusion between his surface layer and his insides, and bolted through the confused, milling crowd towards the pavilion, terrified. Some squib or firework gone terribly awry, mayhap, with Mr. Frodo or Mr. Bilbo bad hurt into the bargain. 

But when he arrived, Mr. Frodo was sitting quietly at his table, surrounded by dozens of yelling relatives and ignoring every one. Lobelia's voice soared over all in a termagant shriek as she scolded and shook her finger under his nose. Mr. Bilbo was nowhere to be seen. 

"Vanished! Vanished clean away! He's mad--" 

Sam blinked at the words bombarding him from every side, and let himself be elbowed aside by the angry milling flocks of Bagginses and Brandybucks and Bracegirdles, Grubbs and Chubbs and Proudfeet and Hornblowers, all milling about like a flock of sheep startled in a pen. Vanished? Mr. Bilbo? It couldn't be. Curse the harvest for keeping him busy and away from Bag End! It must be only a joke.... 

But then again, when he thought of the Dwarves, their beards dyed red by firelight like blood, he thought perhaps it wasn't. He remembered how they stood kicking sparks up from the fire as they chanted against their unknown foe, that Balin sitting in kingly state at Mr. Bilbo's side and Mr. Bilbo a-listening to him, brows drawn together all thoughtful-like in a frown. And with that, he remembered all too well Mr. Frodo's troubled look and the promise Mr. Bilbo exacted from them both. Those things set a knowing in his heart, they did: a knowing that went deeper than his hope of a jest. Mr. Bilbo had gone off to parts unknown, or Sam was a rabbit. 

He pushed forward again and stood on tiptoe, anxious for another glimpse of Frodo, but the high table was surrounded by a seething mass of hobbit gentlefolk with Frodo buried somewhere at the heart of it. 

Lobelia came striding forth from the pavilion, parting the crowd with vicious swats and prods from her umbrella, Otho and Lotho firmly in tow. "It's plain as the nose on your face he's gone off again, the old fool. He planned this all along, but plans won't help that Brandybuck. We'll go straight to the Mayor, see if we don't!" She caught Sam's eye and scowled to find him listening. "Get out, you!" She aimed a roundhouse blow for his head and he ducked the umbrella. By the time he straightened again they had passed on, Lotho giving Sam a parting glower over his shoulder. 

More than a few of the hobbits were already going back to right their overturned benches, resuming the feast where they had left off and gabbling over it like a coop full of hens, gesturing wildly. 

"Send 'round the wine!" a call went up, and Sam caught a serving lad by his wrist, interrupting his conversation and turning him in the right direction before giving him a firm push. There would be no more fun for Sam tonight, that much was clear; already the pleasant buzz of the ale he had drunk was on the wane. If Mr. Bilbo really had gone, whether for good or no, someone would have to see to the help tonight, and that someone might as well be Samwise Gamgee. 

It took a deal of doing to persuade the lads and lasses to stop wagging their tongues and go back to serving, but by dint of threats in the former case and persuasion in the latter, Sam managed. The stalled gears of the party lagged like Sandyman's mill when naughty hobbit lads blocked the mill-race, then caught again. With a lurch and a groan, the machinery behind the party rumbled onward implacably. 

Sam wasn't too busy to keep an eye out, and thus he caught a glimpse of Mr. Frodo slipping away not much after, but he was far too busy to follow, answering prying questions as best he could without telling what he guessed and chivvying the workers to be about their jobs. Mr. Gandalf had gone too, near as he could tell, and the fireworks were over. All it would take now was finishing off the food and drink before people started to weary of dancing and wander off home-- a tidy few hours yet. 

It was near on to dawn before he found his bed, footsore and worried, but too weary to do more than promise himself to be up to Bag End as soon as he had stolen himself a sleep.


	59. Doorwarden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam moves in to Bag End.

When May shook Sam awake, he blinked like an owl roused by harrying crows. She didn't pay him no mind, though, chattering as she went about the room, pouring water in to the basin from his old chipped pitcher and hanging his homespun curtain back on its peg. 

"Wake, Sam! Mr. Bilbo's gone off for good, and they're turning the hole out. Ned Brockhouse says they're giving all of his things away for free to those as comes first to haul it away!" 

Sam stopped trying to burrow back under his pillow; that brought his lids open sharp. "That's foolishness!" 

"See for yourself if it ain't so." She flapped a hand towards the window. Sam squinted against the brightness, but even he could see Pungo Weaver trundling down the lane with a brace of barrels in a hand-cart. 

Sam said a word as made May yelp with disapproval and leaped up, never mind that she was still in his room. He flung off his nightshirt and started struggling in to his breeches, getting the hem caught on his great toe. He wound up hopping about the room like a hare, but he sorted it out at length and bolted into the parlour, where his Gaffer sat stirring a small fire on the hearth with the poker, scowling at the blaze. 

"Hold up there, Samwise," he barked when Sam would have run on out of the room, shirt in his hand and all. "You'd best not be off to Bag End without packing your grip first." 

Sam stared at him, mind awhirl, not taking in much other than the need to be off and stop people trying to carry Bag End away on their backs. "What's that, Dad?" 

"Mr. Bilbo says you're to move in proper today and take up your duties full-time." Gaffer Gamgee turned his head away, jabbing the fire so hard sparks flew up the smoke-blackened chimney, and coals near rolled right out on to the parlour rug. 

"But May says Mr. Bilbo's gone--" Sam blurted, then stopped himself, understanding. He wished he could call back the words, which made his father's shoulders round in further on themselves, but was too late. 

"Aye, so he is." The Gaffer scowled at the fire. "He told me before he went. Last Highday, if you must know. You, saucebox, standing there with your ears as wide as washtubs! Be off about the laundering!" He snapped at May, clapping his hands as though he would box her ears if he caught her, and she scampered off. 

Sam waited, but his old dad had said his piece, so it seemed. After a proper pause he darted back in to his room and gathered up a few bits and bobs-- a shirt and breeches, a spare weskit, as much as he could stuff into the case along with his pillow. The rest would have to wait until he could come back for it. He twisted up the pillowcase and caught the end in his teeth, hurrying past his dad and on out of the hole with one arm still hunting his shirt cuff. 

He did up the buttons as he raced up the Hill, and was stuffing his shirt-tail into his breeches by the time he reached the gate. After a manner of speaking, that is. A queue stretched through the garden into the lane and well down the Hill, choking the Road fit to bursting with handcarts and barrows brought by those as had hopes of sharing the bounty. 

"Sam!" Merry Brandybuck yelped from where he stood wrestling with two hobbits who had their feet in the door and were trying to intrude the rest of their persons. Half a dozen of the Brookstone lads stood waiting and looked equally determined to force a way inside. "A bit of help?" 

"Here now!" Sam bullied his way through the throng, lifting and tossing aside a few ruffians and louts as needed, when they wouldn't make way. "Be off with you!" He resisted the temptation to help Ted Sandyman on his way with a good stout kick. 

"Relations and family friends only," Merry interjected when Sam arrived, hauling two of the Brookstone boys away with one hand in each lad's collar, then shoving them towards the lane. 

"And mind you keep out of that garden, Robin Burrowes!" Sam scowled, seeing a careless foot straying near to his nasturtians. "Out into the lane with the lot of you!" 

With much pushing and shoving, Sam and Merry finally managed to exclude the unwanted hobbits and harry the remaining friends and relations into a neat line on the flagstone path, but the onlookers remained, crushed in to the lane between the hedgerows. 

Wiping his brow with one tidy linen sleeve, Merry shook his head. "You hold the door and don't let anyone in till I clear some of the last lot out," he commanded. Sam retrieved his bits of things and took up a post on the doorstep with them tucked neatly to one side, standing to bar the door as politely and yet as firmly as he knew how. 

Though most of those folk standing before his face were Bagginses and their connexions, Merry's authority shored up Sam's own stalwart presence, and so the hobbits inside the fence minded their feet and kept to the line-- at least until the crowd gave a worried yammer and parted to let Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her menfolk pass. The din was so bad Sam hadn't even heard them rattle up the Hill in their pony trap, plowing aside anybody who didn't want to move. 

Lobelia dismounted from the trap with a flounce of her skirt, and the line on the path scattered in front of her like chickens with a fox in the yard, milling about and trampling Sam's flowers as well as the dry-baked September grass. 

"Now see here, you young lout." Lobelia blustered, and stuck her face straight up to Sam's. "I've come to see Frodo, and you'd best stand aside, if you know what's good for you!" She thrust out her chin and shut her teeth with a sharp click, as though she would have liked to bite him. 

"Mr. Merry Brandybuck has charge of the company, and he said I'm not to let anybody in without his say-so," Sam told her firmly. "He said he'd be back as soon as he could." 

She scowled, lips pinching in to a white-pursed line. "You think you've come up in the world, that's plain." She sized him up, eyes darting to his little bundle and then back to him, a sneer lifting her lip, bold as brass. "And so it seems you have, but you'll never have the Baggins name. You're nothing but a common catamite. Stand aside!" Her umbrella rose to join the fray, poking Sam right in the chest. 

Cheeks burning, Sam caught it firmly in one hand and made himself take a deep breath before pushing it aside. 

"Mistress Lobelia, begging your pardon, but if you was Mr. Bilbo himself, I'd ask you to wait." Sam kept hold of the umbrella for all her efforts to retrieve it. "And what's more," he dared, "Mr. Bilbo would do it of his courtesy, knowing as he would that I'd a proper reason for such, if I asked it." 

She stared at him, livid. "Let go, you ruffian, or I'll have you flogged. Otho, go get the horsewhip out of--" 

She was spared the need for further speech as the door swung inwards behind Sam, and Merry's head poked out. "Ah, Lobelia. I would recognize your dulcet tones anywhere in Hobbiton." His expression failed to match his pleasant words. "I'll be with you in a-- No, stay where you are!" 

Merry turned half-aside and jerked at an unseen arm. "Watch him, Pippin." He glanced back at her, then turned his attention back inside the smial. "We'll be happy to admit you, Lobelia, as Sam said; provided, of course, you leave that whip right where it is." 

Merry vanished for half a moment, then reappeared again with a firm grip twisted into the shirt of a struggling lad no more than Mr. Pippin's age. "You're to keep what was labeled for you, and no more!" Merry instructed. "Good day!" He pushed the lad out, and stood aside so that Pippin might usher out his little brothers, towing one by each sleeve. "A moment more," Merry told Lobelia flatly, and went about ejecting half a dozen others by ones and twos, some by force, until space was cleared for her. 

"I've come to see Frodo." She brushed past Sam as though he didn't exist, and he released her umbrella. 

"He is indisposed; he is resting. But Bilbo has left parting gifts for you and your family. Won't you come in?" 

"Hiding, you mean," Lobelia thrust past the threshold and past Merry as well. "Anyway, we want to see him and we mean to see him. Just go and tell him so!"

The door shut behind her and Sam exhaled a slow breath, delaying the moment when he must look out across the yard. Lobelia had made no effort to keep her voice down, and every hobbit from here to Bywater must have heard the word she'd used. Though many would not know it, Sam could hear a muffled titter spreading, and a murmur that must be explanations. 

He filled his lungs and lifted his chin defiantly. "Back in line, and no shoving. Take your feet out of Mr. Frodo's flowers, if you please, and get them back on the path, Master Hornblower!" 

The lad moved, and his elders followed suit, grumbling a bit, fixing Sam with more than a few narrowed glares, but they minded what he said. Fortunately, even the Sackville-Bagginses seemed to have no mind to argue when they finally emerged into the westering sun. Scowling, Lobelia furiously re-rolled her umbrella while Otho went for the trap, and Lotho stood puffing under the weight of a carved wooden case filled with Mr. Bilbo's silver spoons. 

They took off in a clatter of hooves and a confusion of shouting, trundling slowly through the crowd down towards Bywater. Sam was glad enough to see them go; it gave him the resolve to hold up through the last dregs of the long afternoon. At last the crowded lane started to thin out a bit, and finally Merry emerged to administer a decisive farewell to a pair of lingering Boffins, a Bolger, and a particularly obstinate Proudfoot. When he had dispatched them on their way, Merry stepped up next to Sam and laid a hand on his shoulder. 

"No more visitors to-day. Thank you," he greeted the protests and rude calls that arose in response to his announcement. Sam picked up his little bundle, the cloth hot from sitting in the Sun for half the day, squared his shoulders, and turned to face the door, hoping Mr. Merry wouldn't turn him away. 

Merry, apparently as knowledgeable as Sam's Gaffer, ushered him indoors with a wink on the side the crowd couldn't see, and shut the door behind them, turning the lock with a final snick. Frodo wasn't nowhere to be seen, though Sam had occasionally heard his voice from behind the door as the day wore on, greeting visitors and occasionally chastening them. 

"Go settle yourself in to the back room, Sam, then come join Pippin and me? We're going for a drink down at the Dragon." Merry extended the courtesy cordially. "Frodo needs some time to rest and look over a few papers. And there's a matter or I'd like to discuss with you, if you don't mind." His tired but friendly expression did much to ease Sam's sudden fears as to what that matter might be. 

"All right, Mr. Merry," Sam agreed, and trotted off down the hall to leave his things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for Merry and Lobelia's interchange goes, of course, to J. R. R. Tolkien. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ Ch. 1: "An Unexpected Party."


	60. First Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam enjoys the perks of resident service in Bag End.

Sam wakes in a room that is familiar and unfamiliar all at once. His sisters' shrill voices are missing, as is the pale beam of light from beneath his curtain and the warm, savoury smell of bread and sausages from the kitchen chimney that warms one wall of his little alcove. 

It takes a moment to realize he is in Bag End, but as he rouses, he knows the mattress below his back is rich and firm, and it doesn't stab at him with stems of unruly straw. He can smell the rich tang of Mr. Bilbo's favorite leaf and the faint mellow notes of wine and rich foods lingering in the still air. He has no idea where the Sun may stand in the sky, but the clock inside his mind insists it is time to rise, and so he does, fumbling for his shirt and breeches and dressing in the dark. 

The door opens soundlessly in to the hall, and he pads down its length towards the welling light in the parlour and the kitchen. The itch in his mind and skin, born of a lifetime of early rising, has steered him right: the sky is pale silver and the east horizon is touched with gold and rose. There is a chill in the air that speaks of coming winter, a promise of frost. 

Sam buttons his top button against the cool morning and pads into the kitchen, stirring the banked fire and coaxing it alight, then lighting the stove, as well. No one else stirs in the smial, but he knows Merry and Pippin are tucked up fast in the guest rooms, and Frodo will be in his own bedroom. Sam isn't sure, but Gandalf may be about as well. At any rate, the old wizard passed them on the Road last night as Sam and Frodo's cousins strolled down to the Dragon for a sup of ale, and he seemed to be heading for Bag End. 

Sam swings the kettle over the bright new flames. As he waits for the kitchen fires to mellow, he wanders about the smial, tidying up the mathoms Mr. Bilbo left for friends and kin, finding a stray tea cup and wine glass and returning them to the kitchen washbasin. Last, he fills the copper in the bathing room-- it takes ten trips to the well, ten yokes bearing two heavy buckets each, to bring the water up to the brim. Every drop will be needed, with so many guests about, all wanting to bathe. He stretches his shoulders and hangs the buckets in their places, and sets linen towels out on a rack to warm. 

Then he bustles in to the kitchen and mixes scones for baking, popping them in to the oven. He readies ham and eggs and sausages for the skillet, waiting until he hears a patter of feet-- Mr. Pippin stirring out, heading for the privy. When Pippin returns, hair tousled and cheeks pink with the fresh morning air, Sam has a mug of piping hot tea waiting for him on the kitchen table, and Pippin wraps both hands around it, inhaling the steam greedily. 

"Morning, Sam." Pippin slides on to the bench, still in his nightshirt, and sips as Sam fries eggs and ham and sausage for him, and puts toast on its rack, and pulls the scones out of the oven. 

"Morning Mr. Pippin," Sam replies, and when things are all but ready, "Would you kindly wake Mr. Merry? And Mr. Gandalf, if he's about." 

Pippin trots off and does as Sam asks. Sam takes the charge of waking Frodo upon himself, his heart beating fast as he steps down the long hall and puts his hands on the door. 

Taking a deep breath, he musters his courage and steps inside. "Morning, Mr. Frodo. Breakfast's almost ready," Sam says softly as he opens the inner curtains to let the soft morning light filter in to Frodo's room-- it's all he can think to do. It's what May and Marigold have always done to rouse him every morning, though they don't go to the trouble of being soft-spoken about it. 

Mr. Frodo stirs and lifts himself from his pillow, blinking hazily at Sam. "Morning, Sam." His voice is thick and throaty with sleep, and his face looks worn-- perhaps a little red about the eyes, as though he wept in the night. Sam's heart twists with sorrow to see it. He goes to the nightstand and pours cold water into Mr. Frodo's basin. Tomorrow, he thinks, he will heat new water for Frodo's pitcher before he comes in, and when winter closes in on the Shire, he will build up the fire every morning so Frodo can be warm while he dresses. 

One day, perhaps, he will wake up in this room, curled around his master. 

The thought sends a glorious ripple of heat through him, glowing pleasantly in his belly and lower, but Sam keeps his face placid as he lets himself out with a nod. He pads back down to the kitchen, his heart still hammering giddily with the memory of Frodo's pale, bare shoulder, his nightshirt half-slid off it, moving against the rich green coverlet. 

Pippin returns not long after Sam has the toast in its rack, reporting that Gandalf has gone. In next to no time Merry and Frodo, equally tousled and still not properly clad, are sitting down to breakfast inside Sam's kitchen. Sam's gaze is all for Frodo. He looks worn, as though he hasn't slept well. There is a moment of confusion before Frodo awkwardly takes Mr. Bilbo's place at the head of the table and sees to the serving, with Sam's help. 

Sam doesn't like the peaked look to his master's face, and determines to coddle him as much as may be. It is wasted effort, though Sam gives him the best of the scones slathered with plenty of butter and jam, and serves him up a perfectly fried egg. Not even a piece of beautiful, golden-brown toast served alongside a thick slice of Farmer Cotton's best salted ham and two fat sausages crisped to perfection, can tempt his appetite. Frodo only picks at his breakfast, drawing veiled looks of concern from his cousins. 

"Sit down with us, Sam," Frodo insists after a moment, and soon Sam, blushing, is seated at the foot of the table with his own plate in front of him, instead of standing in the kitchen corner and eating there, as has been his custom. It's a bit dangerous, sandwiched as he is between Merry and Pippin-- what with Merry's extravagant gestures and Pippin's untidy table manners, he soon has a spot of jam on his shirt and toast crumbs in his hair, but he feels good nonetheless. If he let himself, he could believe he belongs with this company, as though he has a right to be seated at Mr. Frodo's table with the new Master of Bag End, the Thain-to-be, and the heir to all the lands of Buckland. 

A dangerous thought, that-- one that would make his Gaffer scowl. 

"Whoa!" Sam dares to admonish Pippin, who has tipped his chair back so far he looks near toppling over backwards and in to the fire. "Steady there!" He rights the chair with a firm pressure of his foot on one of the rungs, reasoning rightly that the current Thain would object to having his son return to him lightly grilled, like a dish of mushrooms. When Pippin is safely resting on the ground again, Sam scrambles up to take the second helpings off the stove, where they sit under a warming lid. Soon everyone is quiet again, applying themselves to the serious business of eating. 

He has made too much food, especially since Frodo isn't eating heartily, but Merry and Pippin make up for the lack nonetheless, devouring Frodo's share of what Sam has prepared and most of Gandalf's, as well. Sam takes care of the rest at Frodo's urging, hoping his obedience will help lift the sleepless shadows from beneath his master's eyes. 

All through breakfast Merry and Pippin work extra hard at being cheerful, trying to chivvy Frodo out of himself, and even Sam can't help but smile at their antics from time to time. At last Frodo's lips curve a bit, and Pippin crows triumph, leaping from his chair and clambering full in to Frodo's lap, kissing him soundly on both cheeks. 

"You're a rascal," Frodo tousles his hair fondly and returns the kiss on one cheek. "And you're all over butter and jam. Your face is sticky, and your hands, too!" He turns his gaze to Sam. "Is bath-water ready?" 

"The copper's been heating this hour or more," Sam is proud to tell him. "And towels are spread on a rack by the hob." 

Frodo smiles readily this time, and his eyes lock with Sam's, warm with approval-- but then strangely he blushes, ducking his face aside, and covers his embarrassment by firmly placing Pippin on the floor. "You're the dirtiest, so you'd best go first. And Merry will go along with you, to see that you don't destroy the place. The walls are plaster, mind, so no splashing!" 

"Listen to him worrying about the plaster, now," Merry laughs, low in his chest, and elbows Sam's arm familiarly. "Just like Bilbo used to do. You'd think he'd been the master of the smial all along!" 

Frodo blushes again and his gaze darts about, avoiding Merry's clear-eyed look. He seems more than a little flustered, shoving his hands in his pockets, then withdrawing them. "Well, someone has to look out for the place now that Bilbo's gone," he says at last, and his hands settle on the back of his chair. "Especially with you ruffians in residence." His eyes lock with Merry's, and Merry gives him a grin as smug as it is pleased, evidently satisfied with the results of his needling. 

"That you must," he acknowledges. "Or else Sam will have to do it for you." 

"I wouldn't want to give Sam more work than I ought," Frodo agrees quite seriously, and straightens his shoulders, as though squaring himself to bear the load of his responsibilities. "Sam, are you well-settled in your room? Is it comfortable, and is it appointed with everything you need?" 

"It's more than good enough, sir. I'll need to go down to Number Three for a bit later today and bring back a few oddments. Clothes and the like, mostly. I could use a lamp or a candle or summat, and a way to tell the time." Sam feels strangely shy to ask Frodo to grant such a request for him, simple and necessary though it is. 

Frodo nods briskly. "Take one, then-- whichever of the extra lamps you fancy. And there are half a dozen water-clocks about the place; Bilbo used to say we have them like a barn has mice. I'll be happy to have more space on the parlour shelves, if you want to pick out one of the spares. And take candles, whenever you want them, and mind you keep a good supply of firewood. Don't stint yourself; keep your room as you would my own." Frodo's eyes hold Sam's for a long moment, firm and calm, as Merry follows Pippin out to the bath-room. 

"Yes, sir," Sam says automatically, and the words send a thrill of pleasure shivering through him. He doesn't precisely mean to do exactly as he's just been told-- he hasn't lived the pampered life Mr. Frodo has, and don't need as much when it comes to candles and a fire, or lamp-oil, neither. But it warms his heart to know Frodo looks out for his comfort. 

A faint heat stirs in his body as he says the words; they feel right on his tongue, as it feels right for Mr. Frodo to speak to him so. He wants to do what is asked of him-- and do it well, maybe better than Frodo is aware. "Is there anything more, sir?" He hears the faint husk in his tone, and knows Frodo hears it too when colour rises to his master's cheeks. 

"Lay out my everyday best brown," Frodo says, and his voice quavers a little, faintly uncertain. 

"Yes, sir." Sam makes the words a caress and lets his tongue taste their sweetness. "And your mid-weight coat too, I think; there's a chill in the air." He is hardening from the pure pleasure of knowing he can care for Frodo now, make sure he wears his heavy coat when he needs it-- and from watching the pink flush in his master's cheeks darken. 

"Yes," Frodo agrees, still seeming at a loss. 

"And shall I do the breakfast dishes, too, sir?" Sam hears the smoke in his own words, and marvels at his forward tongue; the question is completely unnecessary, but he wants to hear the answer. 

"Yes, right away." Frodo's white teeth worry at his lip, but Sam feels that same thrill of pleasure singing through him at the stern words. 

"Yes, Mr. Frodo, right away, sir." Sam doesn't move, though-- he is waiting, daring Frodo to take up his place as master of Bag End. Perhaps he is even needling him a little, carefully, just as Merry did. 

"And be quick about it," Frodo says at last, almost a whisper, not at all the curt command it might have been, but Sam nods as though it were. 

"Yes, sir." Sam says, near purring contentment, and steps forward. "Sorry, sir." The kitchen is narrow, and perforce he must brush close between Frodo and the table. He doesn't rush, hearing the slow, warm rustle of cloth against cloth, his hand bracing for a gentle instant on Frodo's shoulder. "Right away, sir." He delivers the words as a daring kiss of breath near Frodo's ear, low and sultry. 

Frodo shivers once, a tremor that gusts through him from head to toe, then slips out of the kitchen and leaves Sam to his work. 

Sam stolidly refuses to let his mind wander as he pours hot water from the kettle and starts to do the breakfast dishes, ignoring the clamor of images that the sounds from across the smial would conjure in his mind. When he is finished, he dries the stack and puts them away, then he goes to Mr. Frodo's room-- passing the bath-room along the way, where the three gentle-hobbits are going about the business of bathing quite as though it were any ordinary day. 

It is not an ordinary day at all to Sam, whose eyes will wander in spite of all he can do to stop them; Frodo is awaiting his turn, and has discarded his nightshirt for a towel, wrapped low about his slender hips. Sam passes on without pausing, though, and enters Mr. Frodo's room, going straight to the wardrobe. There, he draws out the rich brown velvet breeches and weskit and a fresh linen shirt Frodo has requested. His fingers that shake with the importance of their task and the heat of recent memory, carefully laying them out on his master's bed. 

He has attended Mr. Frodo's bath before, seen him bare as the day of his birth, sitting in the bath, lips open, skin flushed delicate pink with a flush, his body half-roused, more often than not. He pushes the thought down with firm patience, for Sam knows that if he lets memory rise, his flesh will be eager to match it, and that's a fact. 

Finishing with Mr. Frodo's clothes, he makes himself perform the same service for Mr. Merry; it helps that Master Pippin comes in to the room while Sam is considering the wardrobe, chattering cheerfully, seeming unable to decide whether to towel his hair or finish buttoning his shirt. "Leave that towel on Merry's bed," Pippin asks Sam, quite polite. "I left it ready for him especially." 

Sam obeys, and Mr. Merry comes in when he is finished with the suit of clothes, so Sam excuses himself, but not before Mr. Merry drops the towel he has wound about his hips. Sam flushes all over again, but not so hard as Mr. Pippin, who is watching Mr. Merry dress without any pretense at modesty or shame, his eyes wide and his braces forgotten in his hands. Sam clucks his tongue with amusement as he trots down the hall; he only hopes he isn't half so obvious about wanting Mr. Frodo. 

He goes about hunting things to do-- he can almost hear Mr. Bilbo's voice in his memory, scolding him without rancor. "Sam, the what-nots need dusting. And mind you fill all the sconces-- beeswax, not tallow. And polish the globes of the lamps. And--" Sam chuckles at the vividness of the memory, "--make sure to beat the kitchen rug!" He nods to the voice in his mind; he will do these things gladly, as Mr. Bilbo must have known, for the love of Mr. Frodo, whether Mr. Frodo remembers to ask or no. 

For now that Mr. Bilbo is gone, Sam understands something of the last few months which he hadn't before. Bless the old hobbit-- he ran Sam twice as hard in the past year, and Sam thinks it began after Mr. Bilbo awoke from his nap following the Yule feast near a year ago. He wasn't best pleased to wander in and find Sam and Mr. Frodo curled up together, fast asleep over a book of tales, with the fires gone out and half the dishes in the hole still dirty in the basin, waiting to be washed. 

Sure enough, Mr. Bilbo's going has put a new light on his stern behavior, at least in Sam's mind. Seemingly, Mr. Bilbo meant to mind Sam of his place and teach him what was to be done; he had to teach Sam that someone must look after the smial in spite of the temptation to leave the chores and go about mooning after Mr. Frodo or peeping into his bath. 

Sam blushes, not so pleasantly this time. It was a lesson well learned; in the future he'll be sure to see to it that he tends to his work before he goes about enjoying himself, and no mistake. 

A sound meets his ears, testing his resolve-- the soft plash of water sluicing down off a standing body. Sam swallows hard, all his woolgathering focusing down to the image in his head-- of Mr. Frodo standing up, naked and wet, his hair plastered to his forehead and his throat, reaching for one of the towels that lies waiting for him by the wash-tub. 

"Whoa!" Sam nearly falls, jostled hard as Master Pippin flashes down the hall like a streak of lightning, not making much effort to avoid him-- and with good reason; Mr. Merry is in hot pursuit, and he hasn't a stitch on, plus he has soot on his hands and his face, and a towel hanging from his fist. 

Pippin shrieks as Merry catches him up before he can haul open the door and escape outdoors; the noise of their scuffling is so loud that Frodo pads to the door of the bathing-room wearing only a towel about his shoulders, his eyes wide. 

"Mr. Pippin's given Mr. Merry a helping of chimney-soot in his face-towel." Sam explains even as he figures Mr. Pippin's game out for himself. "I expect Mr. Merry will be taking another bath." An sharp cracking of towel and an indignant squawk punctuates and confirms his guess, and they watch together as Mr. Merry hauls his captive back down the hall under one arm, scowling-- and sure enough, Mr. Merry's face is thoroughly blackened and he looks like a chimney-sweep. 

For all his scowling, Merry tips Frodo a sly wink and Sam relaxes, glad Merry isn't truly angry, though Mr. Pippin may not be able to tell the difference. 

Frodo titters, then colours at his own state of undress and vanishes back inside the bathing-room; Sam stifles a smile and goes down the hall to sweep up any soot he can find on the tiles. 

Mr. Merry has to bathe again, but thanks to Sam's early trips to the well, there is plenty of hot water. Pippin and Frodo eat second breakfast while he finishes, and Sam slips Mr. Pippin an extra cake even though he is in disgrace. 

Merry finally comes out again, swaddled firmly in a length of linen towel, face red from fresh scrubbing, and takes his place at the table without bothering to dress. When breakfast is finished, Frodo vanishes into the bathing-room and emerges again straight away, finding Sam dusting the what-nots in the parlour. "Sam, there's a good deal of hot water left; best not to waste it-- especially seeing that you'll have to wipe up all that soot. I daresay they've tracked it through half the smial. You'll need a bath after dealing with that." 

"Yes sir," Sam answers, unable to hold back a smile; the soot is already a memory; even Mr. Merry's sheets have been stripped and put in the hamper and replaced. "I'll put it to good use, sir." 

Frodo nods at him, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Enjoy a good soak. We won't be back for hours, not until time for supper, and you've worked more than hard enough to earn it." 

Sam flushes with pleasure, both at the compliment and the prospect of a bath. The Gamgees aren't like some poor hobbits-- his mam and his Gaffer have always been strict about keeping their brood clean, but they don't have a wide, deep washtub like the Bagginses, nor hot water to spare above and beyond what is strictly required. Sponge-baths are the rule in Number Three, and are most often taken while standing over a dishpan of water heated on the woodstove. 

When the gentle-hobbits leave, Sam is at leisure to go about the chores he has outlined for himself, uninterrupted. When he goes to fetch candles, he finds the remains of an excavation, fresh from the previous day, in the wall of the rearmost cellar, and scowls at the footprints in the fresh mound of dirt on the flagstones of the floor. This will be a job of work, and a filthy one, at that. 

He tackles it last, scooping up the earth and mixing it with a bit of water, forming mud to pack back in to the hole the digging has left-- left by some lout from yesterday's party of curiosity-seekers, without a doubt. The fool must have had some notion of finding Mr. Bilbo's treasure. Sam's work will be a temporary fix at best, until he can have a plasterer come up and do a proper job of sealing the wall, but it will help to keep tunneling rats and moles out of Mr. Frodo's larder until then. 

Sam is all over mud when he's finished, and sweaty into the bargain, and hungry too-- but too dirty to eat. He goes back in to the smial, grateful for the warmth as he strips off his clothes and pours most of the rest of the water from the copper into a washtub. There is really too much for one hobbit, and it's almost too hot as he lowers himself in inch by inch, sighing with pleasure as he sinks down until it covers him near to his chin. 

This sort of luxury has been all too rare in Sam's life; he can count the times he's enjoyed such a thing on the fingers of one hand with a few to spare. He runs the rough washing cloth over his skin slowly, savoring the feel of it, as though a layer of grime and weariness is sloughing away. He takes the time to scrub thoroughly, all the way from behind his ears to the tips of his toes and in between. There is plenty of fresh-scented soap and he washes his hair, too, rinsing by pouring dipperfuls of clear water over his head from the bucket next to the tub. 

When he is done the water is still pleasantly warm, so he adds the last of the clear hot water from the bucket and lies back again, hand on his belly. His memories of Frodo, combined with the pure pleasure of the bath, have left him half-roused. Fitting the soap inside his palm, he takes himself in hand for a lazy stroke, feeling more than a little self-conscious and exposed even though he is alone in the smial. 

The hot water and thoughts of Frodo quickly have him hard, and he bends his head forward, his moan echoing hollowly in the empty room. His hand tightens, and he bites his lip as he strokes, the soap wonderfully slippery and soft, molding to a luxuriant fit against his skin. He wants Frodo more than anything, any way he can have him-- wants to do everything with Frodo he has ever dared to do before, and much more. He wants things he's only heard of, but never tried. 

He wants Frodo under him, whimpering with pleasure and need. 

Sam bites his lip harder, shame and lust mingling, a hot flush racing through his body and burning in his cheeks. Never mind Lotho's ugly words; Frodo wants it too. He said as much, now didn't he? He wants Sam-- like that. And Sam wants to give it to him. Sam wants to sink deep and plow his beautiful master like a new furrow. 

Sam groans aloud, the sound wrenched from the bottom of his throat, and lifts his hips, pushing hard into his hand. The water sloshes dangerously near the lip of the tub, but he barely notices. His eyes are squeezed tight shut and the grip of his hand is the wicked-tight clasp of Frodo's slim body, and he is pushing-- pushing as hard as he likes, glorious hard strokes, deep and true. 

The hot, silky water around him makes him feel almost as though his whole body is buried inside Frodo, and the scent of the soap is Frodo's; a faint, clean tang of rosemary, and maybe a hint of bergamot. Sam draws it into his lungs with a frantic gasp, one hand white-knuckled on the rim of the tub, the other moving frantically under the water. 

Frodo, yes. Frodo, belly-down and supported on splayed hands and knees, pale thighs wide, legs trembling on either side of Sam's. His narrow hips pushed apart, admitting Sam's cock, his prominent hipbones fitted inside Sam's palms. Sam thinks feverishly of dragging his master's body back even as he thrusts forward into it with a hard slap of flesh on flesh that draws a cry from Frodo's throat and a growl from his own. Frodo's cock will bounce against his belly, drawn up tight and hard. His hipbones will be slippery with sweat. 

Sam reaches to tweak his own nipple, and imagines it is Frodo's-- the delirious sizzle of pleasure that zings through him, burning into his cock, would make Frodo moan and whimper even more. He pinches harder, feeding the burn, pushing the pleasure towards pain. It flares with marvelous intensity as his coarse, hard nails dig in and twist. Harder, harder... 

An agonized syllable pushes past his lips, hoarse and forbidden, a curse his Gaffer would slap his face for speaking. He says it again, low and harsh, tightening his hand around his cock for a last vicious stroke. Water slops over the edges of the tub as his body jerks, hard, and red starbursts erupt behind his clenched lids, the word a litany now on his lips, pouring out of him in a torrent with each brilliant pulse until he slumps, exhausted and trembling, the remains of the water cradling him gently, air moving cool on his wet, overheated skin. 

Sam lies there bonelessly, hearing his heart pound, feeling the water slowly grow cold around him, the last spasms of his climax twitching through his languorous muscles. He can almost hear his voice echoing, twining with Frodo's imagined cries. 

He wants this. Even now, freshly-sated, he wants it so much his toes curl with the frustration of it, and his mouth tastes dry. 

At last he gets up, his knees still a bit wobbly, glad of the flagstone floor with its slope towards the drain. He pours out the tub and rinses it with fresh water, then props it on his side and towels himself off carefully, then mops up the water that is left on the floor. 

He goes to his room, leaving damp footprints on the tile, and is hardly inside his breeches when a timid knock is followed by Marigold's voice-- she is at the servant's door just outside Sam's room. 

"Hello? Mr. Baggins? Sam? I've come for the laundry." Sam hears the door close behind her as she creeps in, and knows how exactly close he has come to shaming himself and shocking his sister, but he can't bring himself to mind. 

He goes out to her as soon as he has finished buttoning his shirt, and her eyes widen. She sniffs the air, leaning close to him, and he draws back with a frown, keenly conscious of his wet hair, which gives him away. 

"Well, ain't you just the big-bug now," Marigold says, pert and saucy. "Been making free with Mr. Baggins's own bath-soap, have you? And his bath-room too, I'll warrant." He can see the envy in her eyes, and hear it in her voice, and he feels a pang of mercy for her in spite of himself. 

"Aye. You wouldn't have me serve at his table smelling like a stable-hand!" He says gruffly, but he helps her strip the beds and gather up the clothes, though it ain't rightly his job. 

When she is done, he gives her a sweetmeat filched from the pantry and shoos her out so he can begin cooking supper.


	61. Wills and Testaments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam endures an unexpected inquiry.

Sam set his water clock on a shelf in his room and tipped the contents of a drinking-cup into its reservoir, biting his lip between his teeth and pouring until the water welled just to the topmost line, no more. He set the cup down and watched as the first drops gathered at the tip of the cone and plashed into the basin below. It was six o'clock, or near enough. 

By rights he ought to set the clock at noon or midnight, but he couldn't wait to watch it work and think about how his master had given to him. A small affair made of brass dulled by time, it was one of the most modest of Mr. Bilbo's clocks, but for this very reason it had been kept on a low shelf, and as a child, Sam had loved to fill it and watch it keep the time. He had always been fascinated by the clear water moving through it as though by magic, each slow drip marking the passing of a moment. Usually it marked only pleasant ones, for Bag End held much that meant happiness to him, even then. 

He kept an alert ear open for sounds of his master's return, and took a deep breath of the savoury scent of ham baking that hung in the air, warm and rich. The day had seemed infinitely long, still and beautiful, as Sam puttered around the big empty smial and dared to think of it as his charge. He'd done all he could think of to make it welcoming for Mr. Frodo when he returned home-- he'd even managed to cut a bit of holly in the back garden and lay it out on the mantel in the dining-room. The lamps in that room and the parlour were lit and turned low, awaiting the master of the smial, and the best dinner Sam could think of on short notice was all but ready. 

Bag End's front door hinge was so well-oiled it didn't never squeal-- Sam himself saw to it-- but the sudden chatter of Pippin's voice from the front hall roused him from his pleasant thoughts, and he went out to greet Frodo and his guests. An unexpected voice, fruity and booming, made his feet falter in the hall, and when he entered the mud-room, it was with his first smile of welcome considerably sobered, and his hands folded proper, like a butler he'd read about in one of Old Mr. Bilbo's books. 

Sure enough, Mayor Whitfoot stood there, resplendent in his dark green woolen coat and a cranberry weskit and breeches, with a nice thick muffler hanging about his neck, though it wasn't wrapped at the throat. His eyes turned to Sam and flickered up and down, disconcerting and canny, measuring him. 

"Mayor Whitfoot," Sam said steadily. "Welcome to Bag End, sir." He reached for the mayor's coat, hanging it on a peg. "Mr. Frodo, Mr. Merry. Mr. Pippin." He took each coat in turn, uncomfortably aware of the Mayor's eyes still resting on him, and aware that Mr. Frodo's very deliberately were not. But what would the Mayor be doing here, at the ending of the harvest season? He ought to be in Michel Delving, finishing up with settling any disputes over the crops. 

Sam bit his tongue on his questions, sensing Frodo's distress and not wanting to bring it to light. "There's a good ham a-roasting in the stove, if you'll pardon me; I'll just be about the serving of it." Sam excused himself when he'd seen to the coats, and went off to the kitchen. 

Once there he busied himself hastily, lifting the ham out of its roasting pan on to a platter. While the meat rested a bit, he quickly set a fourth place at the table and brought out a better wine-- one from Mr. Bilbo's best and oldest stores, identifiable by the dust on the rack if naught else. He polished it hastily on the tail of his shirt and put it to the left of Mr. Frodo's place at the table's head, along with a corkscrew. 

Now for the rest of the meal! He spent a hasty few moments dishing the contents of all the pots up in to bowls he'd set to warm on the hearth, and trotted them all out to the table. Last he brought out bread and a dish of butter, and then went to the parlour, where the four hobbits sat talking in low voices. 

He could not miss a note of strain, nor miss how the eyes lifted to him swiftly again, Mr. Merry's and Mr. Pippin's darting away just as fast. Sam looked to Mr. Frodo, questioning, but there was no information on his master's wary face. 

"Dinner's served, if you will," Sam said, and stood aside for the unusually decorous procession to the table. Mayor Whitfoot made a pleased sound to see it, the room bright and cheery with lamplight and holly. 

"A finer table I've rarely seen, Mr. Baggins," the mayor said. "The ham smells so good, I could lick the platter clean, if it were allowed!" Fine praise indeed from the Mayor, for his belt was long, and it showed him a lifelong master of the craft of good eating. Sam flushed with pleasure on his master's behalf, his spine straightening. 

Will Whitfoot deferred to Frodo, who seated him on his right and ushered Merry to his left, leaving the last place for Pippin. They sat down and Sam went to open the wine, first presenting the label for Frodo's approval. 

It was granted, a quick flash of eyes that touched Sam's with unspoken gratitude. Sam eased the cork free and poured for Frodo, then moved around the table and filled each glass. 

Whatever the Mayor's business was, hobbits were sensible creatures, and it would keep until the conclusion of dinner. Sam hid his nerves in busy activity, providing the knives for the carving of the ham and helping to pass plates, washing the pots out in the kitchen, and fetching more wine when it was called for. At last, dessert plates were scraped clean of trifle, and the hobbits seemed all but sated, sipping wine and pushing back their plates for Sam to fetch them away in to the kitchen. He reached for Mr. Pippin's first, but the mayor stopped him. 

"No, leave that for a moment. If I may?" Will flickered a polite glance to Frodo, who nodded. 

"Samwise." The mayor tucked one thumb thoughtfully behind a button of his weskit. "You seem a fine servant, lad. A better table I've never seen laid by one hobbit, and I shall certainly remember your touch with honey-glaze." He patted his belly, thick fingers pale against dark brocade. 

"Thank you, sir. I add a bit of cinnamon and clove," Sam said politely, inclining his head forward to accept the compliment, as felt proper. 

"Is that it? Excellent." The mayor seemed absent now, and indeed, he proved ready to move along. "I shan't beat about the bush, Samwise, for I know this trouble has plagued you before. I don't know how much Shire law you know, lad, but there are rules and regulations governing the hereditary transfer of properties, or the testate will of the departed--" he cleared his throat, and moderated his language. "To put it simply, lad, there are rules that have to be followed for a hobbit to will his property to someone who isn't his blood heir in the eyes of the law." 

"Yes, sir." Sam nodded, glad of the translation even though he'd been following. 

"Among those rules are stated the requirement that the benefactor have full expectation that the beneficiary of the legal document-- that would be Frodo Baggins-- shall be a viable heir. That is, an expectation and a confidence that he is willing and able to provide heirs of his own." 

Sam stiffened, suddenly understanding why he had been drawn into this. Frodo's eyes were on him, level and calm. 

"I see, sir." Sam nodded, and he did. He could recollect Mr. Bilbo's scowl in his mind's eye, and heard his own promise. Given this information, it didn't take a scholar to figure why that promise had been exacted, and he blessed the old hobbit's knowledge and foresight-- selfish though it may have seemed, at the time. 

"Certain parties," the mayor cleared his throat, "have called this clause to my attention, and stipulated a.... physical relationship, between yourself and Mr. Frodo Baggins, as adequate cause and reason for the legal invalidation of--" he considered for a moment. "The testate document in question." He cleared his throat. "It's a delicate matter, lad. Do you see what I'm getting at?" 

"Lobelia says you and Frodo are lovers, and she wants to use that for grounds to cancel Mr. Bilbo's will," Pippin chirped helpfully, and Merry shushed him with a swift kick under the table. 

"I follow you, sir." Sam nodded politely to the mayor and Mr. Pippin in turn. 

"And so, I will have to ask you to take an oath, with these witnesses," Will Whitfoot cleared his throat and frowned. "To the truth of the matter, whatever it be." 

"I understand." Sam squared his shoulders, proud. "I ain't Mr. Frodo's catamite, nor his lover neither, and I'll swear whatever oath you ask." 

Will Whitfoot cleared his throat, frown deepening. "It's plain to see you're a good servant, Samwise, as I said before. But don't be lying, now, or you could stand to lose your good name, and your family's right to stay tenant on the Baggins estate, and serve it hereafter." 

Sam swallowed hard, thinking of his Gaffer and his sisters, but truth was truth. He could feel Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin's eyes like a pressure against his skin, and Mr. Frodo's. 

"Mayor Whitfoot, I ain't never shared Mr. Frodo's bed, nor acted with him as was improper between master and servant excepting a kiss or two, and that's flat." Sam felt the words tingling in his throat like he'd bit down on metal, or been standing right near a lightning strike. His face filled with heat near to burning to say such amongst this company of hobbits. 

The Mayor cleared his throat again, patting his weskit and drawing forth a worn leather tobacco pouch. "Swear to it after me, lad," he said. "I, Samwise Gamgee..." he spelled out the words in short phrases, pausing for Sam to follow along. Sam threw a desperate glance at Mr. Frodo, who nodded gravely, so he did, stumbling a bit at the lofty diction here and there. His chest tightened fit to squeeze the breath out of him and his heart swelling with fear and misery, wondering dully if this meant he was forswearing Frodo for ever. 

"I, Samwise Gamgee... do solemnly swear under oath before witnesses, on pain of losing my place and my family's place as tenants of the Baggins estates, that I speak true in this matter. And I do swear and confirm that I have, up to the date of the departure of Mr. Bilbo Baggins, not participated in any improper physical relations with Mr. Frodo Baggins. Nor have I conducted myself in a way that would lead to a reasonable suspicion in the eyes of Mr. Bilbo Baggins that Mr. Frodo Baggins, his chosen and assigned heir, is likely to fail in producing a suitable future heir to the aforesaid estate of Bag End, its attachments, and environs." Sam's eyes stung, and they blurred as Mayor Whitfoot wrote out the oath on a sheet of parchment Frodo provided. He sat at the table and signed his name to it, the red ink seeming to bleed illegibly into the golden haze of lamplight that gathered in his swimming eyes. 

Pippin's little hand came under the table and pressed his knee, but the glimmer of light in his eyes only dazzled all the more for this evidence of sympathy. He sat very still while Merry, Pippin, and the mayor all added their signatures below his own. 

"I understand, based on the precise terms of the law, that this rule does not indenture my future conduct, relating only to Bilbo's expectations of it based on my behavior as he observed it before leaving." Frodo said levelly, the cool words coming to Sam faintly through the rush of blood in his ears as he struggled to master his dismay. 

The Mayor paused, and Sam blinked as the words sank in, stealing a furtive glance upwards, hardly daring to hope. 

"As I read the law, that is correct." 

"Nor does it bind Sam to any future expectations of such conduct," Frodo pressed steadily. 

"That it doesn't." Will Whitfoot sighed, deflating a great deal. "Mind you, you shouldn't say such things in my hearing. I must say, it's not in keeping with the spirit of the law." He felt for his pipe in his weskit and drew it out, scowling at the bowl for a moment, inspecting it for damage. "But it's my mind to believe you know your own business, and I judge from his face that young Samwise here speaks the truth-- the truth as Bilbo himself told it to me not a month ago, and you as well, only this afternoon." He paused to thumb a generous helping of Longbottom Leaf into his pipe, then went to the hearth to light it from a spill. When he had puffed for a few minutes, he seemed satisfied with the draw, and sat down again with a low grunt. 

"In the eyes of the law, lads will be lads. And of course, there's Mr. Brandybuck here, and doubtless dozens more, who can swear to you stealing kisses from a lass or two in Brandy Hall before you left it, and afterwards in Hobbiton as well, so it's no great matter, now that we have this." He lifted the drying parchment between a thumb and forefinger. "Still, no matter what the law says, this oath and your own wouldn't satisfy certain parties even if the whole of the Shire were to witness it and hold it true." 

"But the Sackville-Bagginses will not have legal recourse." Frodo lifted his chin, stubborn, and Sam held his breath. 

"Aye. They won't." Will shook his head, releasing a lungful of pale smoke. "Not to say Lobelia won't try to find it, should you give her a foothold or," he coughed for a moment, and thumped his chest impatiently, "should heirs fail to be forthcoming." 

"It will not be her affair or her family's until such time as I should die both childless and intestate-- a combination of affairs that certainly will not happen." Frodo's generous mouth pinched a narrow line, and his eyes were hard. 

"A wise intention." The mayor nodded soberly. "And if you are of a mind to hear advice just now, I would advise you also to take great care to uphold all the expected duties of Hobbiton's largest landholder as well, just the way Bilbo always did." 

"I have no other intention." Frodo bowed, and Sam dared to take a breath. His head was fairly reeling with all the elevated talk, and with the conflicting remnants of grief, fear, and hope. 

"Good, good. I'm sorry to have troubled you." The mayor's face lightened. "And your good servant as well, but it had to be done, and quickly, I judge." 

"It is always worthwhile to satisfy the requirements of the law," Frodo returned smoothly. 

"Well-spoken." Will nodded to him. "And stoutly done, Master Gamgee." He glanced at the window. "Now I see it's full dark outside, so I'd best be heading down the Hill to the Dragon, to see if they've a lodging for me." 

"You'll be much more comfortable here," Frodo shook his head, decisive. "And there's plenty of room. Sam, fetch us all a tot of apple brandy, and we'll speak of more pleasant things after." 

"Yes, Mr. Frodo." Sam rose to obey, managing not to stumble on his way out, though he was trembling. 

If he spent a few minutes longer than was strictly needed in the cellar, composing himself, then the gentle-hobbits and the mayor were all kind enough not to comment upon it when he returned.


	62. A Quiet Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is reassured.

Sam has a stolid face fixed in place by the time he returns to the parlour with brandy and little glasses, but he isn't calm, for all of that. There are too many questions chasing themselves through his head, and he feels like he's running about in circles behind his eyes, his thoughts strung rattling behind him, like a dog with a tin pan tied to its tail. Mr. Merry's eyes seem to drift away from him, and Mr. Pippin's linger with a frank curiosity that makes Sam's ears burn. The mayor is cordial now that business is done, bearing much of the load of the evening's cheer, but gradually the apple brandy eases even Frodo's stiff shoulders, and a bit of laughter emerges from the parlour along with wisps and curls of pipe-smoke. 

Sam quietly tidies up the dishes and the few leftovers-- he doesn't feel much like eating, and that's a fact. The very thought that he might have cost Frodo Bag End! His Gaffer would have put him back in a child's swaddling cloth and made him a rag-poppet to play with, and he'd have deserved every bit of it. But that wouldn't have been the worst of it-- the worst would have been him and his family slaving away for that Lobelia. Sam knows that might happen yet, if she finds a way to get what she's after. He shudders. 

Behind that thought, below it, darker and nastier, another notion revolves-- that Bag End is more important than he is, and Mr. Frodo surely won't have him, not after this. He knows the former thinking is true, and it don't bother him, at least not much. But the latter, now. There's a hard bit of gristle to chew and swallow. Elbow-deep in soapsuds, Sam bows his head over his work and tries to keep a cheery look. 

Mr. Pippin comes in, nibbling about the leftovers already, pulling a scrap of ham from the bone and popping it in to his mouth. Sam don't turn to look at him, scrubbing dutifully, but he's aware as Mr. Pippin comes near. 

"You should know, Sam, what Mr. Frodo said when we met with the mayor." Mr. Pippin pats his arm familiarly. 

Sam looks up, cautious. Pippin's eyes are bright with the apple brandy, and they seem a little unfocused, but he is still sober enough to keep his voice low. 

"He said his mother and his da, they had a little bit of farm they left for him back in Buckland, and if the mayor wouldn't take your word, he'd leave Hobbiton right away and take you with him there. And then old Flourdumpling could just have Lobelia's bungling on his hands to deal with, and Lotho after." 

Sam feels his jaw drop, and yet no words come out. 

"He didn't like that one bit, the mayor didn't!" Pippin's Tuckborough accent is thicker than usual, what with the strong liquor he's been drinking. "My da says she'd make a squire fit to run prime bottomland to desert and starve her tenants doing it, and Lotho would do even worse. Will wouldn't want to be standing between them and the county every time he turned about." Pippin's sprite-fey eyes are smiling at Sam. He takes a swig of brandy, rolling it around on his tongue. "And Merry," he lowers his voice a bit more, eyes dancing. "Now Merry, he says you're just the lad to mind Frodo's affairs for him, and give him the good hard tupping he wants, the sooner the--" 

"Mr. Pippin!" Sam yelps, finding his voice at last. He's so embarrassed his whole skin tingles, and he knows he's red as a holly berry. He forces his voice down. "Say he didn't speak so in front of the mayor!" 

"Just to me." Pippin is still smiling, a merry mischief in his eyes. "And Merry knows as much about tupping as any lad needs to." He gives Sam a sly wink. "And one day, I'll learn it all from him, you see if I--" 

"Pippin." Frodo's voice is pleasant but stern as he appears in the doorway. "Do I hear you troubling Sam?" 

"Not a bit of it," Pippin chirps cheerfully, though it's got to be as plain as the nose on your face that if Sam blushed any harder, he wouldn't never go back to normal again. "Just giving him a bit of advice." 

Frodo tilts his head, plainly doubting his word, and slides his eyes towards Sam, who tries not to look guilty but probably just winds up looking miserable, judging by the feel of it on his face. 

"Go help Merry entertain the mayor," Frodo tells Pippin in a voice that brooks no argument, and Pippin scuttles as Frodo steps deeper in to the kitchen. Sam is at the basin, so the corner of the wall neatly cuts off the line of sight from the parlour. 

Frodo steps near him, eyes soft and sad. "I'm sorry, Sam." The warmth of his breath brushes Sam's face, and he raises his hand to caress Sam's jaw, laying his cheek against Sam's on the other side. His lips find Sam's ear and play there, making all the fine hairs at the back of Sam's neck stand up and prickle in the nicest way there is. He nestles against Sam for a brief moment, his shoulders seeming to sag just a bit. "The mayor said you mustn't be warned ahead of time, or Lobelia could say I had bribed you to answer as you did." 

"It scared me out of a year's growth," Sam murmurs, his throat tightening with love even as his whole body sags with relief. "I won't say it didn't." 

"And it frightened me just as much when he found us at the market." Frodo shifts away from Sam slightly, glancing towards laughter in the parlour. "It cut me to the bone to upset you so." His eyes look bleak, suddenly, almost haunted. 

Sam turns farther towards Frodo's shoulder, rubbing his cheek against Frodo's even though he leaves his soapy hands in the basin. "I reckon I know that," he murmurs, keeping half an eye peeled towards the arch, in case someone's shadow should fall across the tile and signal for him to draw back. "I don't want to leave this place to those Sackville-Bagginses, no more than you do." 

"It seems Bilbo knew best," Frodo sounds thoughtful, and more than a little sad. 

"That he did, and we both owe him a debt." Sam says, brushing his mouth against Frodo's cheek and drawing back to look at his master steadily. 

"I'm glad you see it that way." Frodo steps back and smiles at Sam. "I don't think I've yet begun to realize he's gone," he confesses abruptly, his smile fading. 

"It won't be easy, sure enough, but you've your friends about you. And me." 

Frodo's eyes warm to this, and his smile curves deeper, but Sam sees a shadow sliding across the floor and nods towards it, then smoothly turns back to the basin. When Merry enters he and Frodo are well apart. 

"Is there any sponge-cake?" Merry asks brightly. 

"I've enough for everyone, if you aren't greedy. No, Sam, your hands are wet. Keep on as you are." Frodo fetches the sponge-cake out of the pantry on its cake-plate and cuts generous slices with a knife. "A pity it's too late for berries." 

"Jam will do," Merry goes to pilfer the larder himself. "Ah, there's the raspberry!" He catches Sam glancing at him as he comes out with the pot of jam in his hands, and tips him a sly wink. Sam flushes again, remembering what Pippin said, and looks down at the dishwater. 

When he looks up again, Merry has gone, and soon after, Pippin returns with a stack of dirty plates held carefully between both hands. 

"Thank you, sir," Sam says gratefully, and makes quick work of them, then goes about lighting the bedroom fires and turning back the coverlets so that the mayor and the gentle-hobbits will be warm when they seek their night's rest.


	63. A Misty Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo takes up his duties to the Shire.

Sam is up late enough to adjust his clock proper-like, and the next morning it wakes him with its little chime so that he can go out and see to breakfast. When he goes to fetch in water, he learns it is a grey, rainy morning with half the valley shrouded in mist, a day when you want something that will stick to your ribs, so he decides to make fried taters to go with the leftover ham. 

After he fills the copper and the basins and the kettles, Sam makes fried mushrooms and eggs flipped over whole and thick hot toast, and puts a pinch of spice in the breakfast tea. He decides to make a bit of gravy in the sausage pan right before he serves the food-- a bit of flour and milk boiled in the dripping. It ain't usual for wealthy hobbits to eat so, but it's right good on a soggy morning. 

The Mayor ain't up, so Sam dares to slip into Mr. Frodo's room to wake him. It seems Frodo is already awake, and he lifts a hand to return Sam's soft greeting, then sits up to look out through the window in to the rain. 

"I hope Bilbo is indoors and comfortable; perhaps in Bree." Frodo sounds a bit forlorn, and his brows draw together with worry. It don't seem likely to Sam, who thinks the whole world outside the Shire is just wilderness and trees and wolves and whatnot, so he just makes a little grunt of sympathy in his throat and hands over Frodo's tea, then slips out. A few minutes later, he hears his master tapping on Mr. Merry's door to rouse him. No doubt his and Mr. Pippin's noise will soon have the mayor stirring. 

Soon four hobbits sit down at the table-- a more formal breakfast than some at Bag End, as formal as the dinner the night before, in honor of the mayor. Sam takes pride in serving it up, every bit piping hot and done to a turn. Even the gravy goes over well, drawing admiring compliments and vanishing to the last drop. 

Mr. Frodo's brooding lasts right on through breakfast. Though he's still a good host, his face is a little drawn and his answers wait just a little later than they ought to sometimes. Sam keeps hard by to pick up the slack, as it's needed. Mr. Frodo's distrait air puts him in mind of a time long ago when he first come to Bag End. Sam recollects many a day when that same fine line lingered between Mr. Frodo's brows, and all of a sudden his mind might wander away in the middle of a thought, leaving his eyes haunted and lost. 

"Well, Frodo!" Mayor Whitfoot pushes back his empty plate and gives a contented sigh. "Your hospitality is just as good as Bilbo's ever was, and I thank you for it." He covers a belch with the back of his hand, quite discreet. "I'm going to be touring around the Hobbiton landholders and tenants today-- probably for most of the week, and I thought perhaps you'd like to come along. There are always a few matters to settle, and many's the time Bilbo and I have done this bit of business together, though you can go around on your own later if you like, of course. Unless you mean to hire a bailiff." 

"I'll go myself, as Bilbo always did." Frodo's brow is still creased and there are smudges under his eyes. To Sam's thinking, he doesn't look particularly disposed to do it, but his jaw is set and Sam can tell he means to. Sam sighs, pushing his own notions on to a back-burner and leaving them there to simmer. Perhaps the bit of work will do his master good. 

"I'll fetch out your wet-day kit," Sam murmurs, clearing away Frodo's plate. "Dark wool and a shearling jacket." His master's brocades and velvets won't do for barnyard visits, and judging by the thick air outside, they'd be wet through in half an hour. 

"That will be fine, thank you, Sam." Frodo gives him a grateful nod. 

"Set him up to make a week of it, Sam." The mayor nods at him, genteel. "We'll have to go a ways abroad, and coming back here every night would slow us." 

"Yes, sir," Sam says when Mr. Frodo's nod confirms the instruction. His heart is sinking. A week without Mr. Frodo at home? The place will be dismal, and that's a fact. "Shall I--?" 

Frodo hesitates, and his eyes meet Sam's soberly. "Perhaps not this year, Sam." 

"Yes, sir." Sam expected this answer, but it saddens him nonetheless. He puts the breakfast dishes in the sink and leaves them for later. 

While the mayor bathes, Sam readies Mr. Frodo's baggage, packing him a nice mix of clothes that he can wear on warmer days if the weather changes, or layer up if it stays wet and dreary. He clucks and talks to himself as he does it-- "Some nice leather gloves, Samwise, and a flannel undershirt, just in--" until he suddenly becomes aware that Frodo is standing in the door, listening to him, the strangest little smile on his face. 

"You're going to take care of me, aren't you, Sam?" 

"I mean to, begging your pardon." Sam flushes, caught being a ninnyhammer. 

"Merry and Pippin are planning to go back to Buckland and Tuckborough," Frodo lets him know he will have the smial to himself. "I should be back on Mersday, and if not, I'll post a letter." 

"Thank you, sir." Sam feels a tightness in his chest; he's going to miss his master. 

"Don't let yourself get lonely-- you don't have to stay up here all that time, unless you want to. Spend some time with your family," Frodo offers. 

"Aye, that's a good plan." Sam will be glad of the chance. He lit out so fast from Number Three just two days hence that he never said his father a polite goodbye, or a thank-you, neither. 

"You should cherish them, while they're around for you to do it," Frodo's face closes a little, the line in his brow deepening, and he seems to draw in on himself. Sam is suddenly conscious of how small Frodo is inside his clothes, and how big Bag End seems around him-- the door, properly hobbit-sized, feels oddly loose around his master's whip-slim form, and the burden of being the Baggins of Bag End seems a heavy one to put on those narrow shoulders. Mr. Frodo looks alone, standing there, for all that he ain't. 

"Yes, sir." Sam's heart goes out to Frodo. He understands something of what his master is going through; it ain't ever easy to lose a loved one, and Mr. Frodo has had more than his share of that sort of losing in his short life. Again Sam thinks of the pale, wet-cheeked lad he met so many years ago in the lower garden. That lad is standing in front of him again even now-- too old these days to cry, mayhap; too tough on the outside to show what Bilbo's leaving is doing to him inside, but Sam knows it's there, and he understands. "I will, sir," he says gently, meaning Frodo too, and Frodo seems to hear it, his lips curving upward gently and his eyes warming as they hold Sam's for a moment. 

Then he lifts his chin, squaring his shoulders, and comes in to the room to change out of his morning clothes and in to the warmer kit Sam has readied for him. Sam understands it's not polite to peek, not with Mr. Frodo in such a somber mood, and he restrains himself, minding the suitcase with firm concentration. 

Mr. Frodo has always been a moody sort, quick with a laugh and a smile, fair and kind, but swift to fall into melancholy, should the notion strike him. Sam reckons it comes from him being forced to know more than his share of grief too young. 

He hadn't understood it quite proper right away; of course he learned straight off that the terrible sadness that haunted the young Brandybuck was because of Frodo losing his mam and his da, but even if his mind knew, then he still didn't know all the way to the bottom of his heart. When he was that young, some part of him just couldn't figure why it took so terribly long to get over, and why Frodo's lashes might be wet and spiky any time Sam took him off-guard for the next year or more. 

When his own mam died, though, then he knew. He learned first-hand about the great aching hole death left inside of you, so big nothing you shoved into it could fill it up. He remembered running from it, running from the dreadful knowing that his mam was gone, the terrible loss-- running to the only place he knew of that he might find a bit of solace: Bag End. But even Bag End wasn't worth naught in the face of losing somebody that way. Waking up to learn Mr. Frodo had found him in his hiding-place, wrapped him up gentle-like, and put him down to sleep in his big feather bed, that wasn't no better than waking up in his own bed and not hearing his mam out whistling over the breakfast. 

Sam swallows hard, his eyes stinging-- even to this day, it can catch him like this, the memories so bright it's like they were made yesterday, so keen it's like he might expect to wake up to that sound in the morning. He misses it all over again when he doesn't. 

Now Old Mr. Bilbo's gone and left Mr. Frodo-- if not just like his parents, then near enough. For how is Mr. Frodo to know Mr. Bilbo is biding all right? Not in the belly of some wolf or in some troll's kettle, no: safe and sound and warm enough and dry, with plenty to eat and no perils looming. There isn't any way of knowing, that's how. It grieves Sam, and Mr. Bilbo isn't even his own flesh and blood! Allowances will have to be made, and Mr. Frodo will need his time to grieve. Likely that's why Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin have stayed about-- to try and keep him outside himself until the worst of it passes. 

"Sam?" Frodo's voice is filled with concern, and Sam realizes his eyes are swimming. 

"Just thinking about my mam, sir." Sam gives him a half-truth, which is better than naught. 

Frodo's breath catches, and his eyes melt with understanding. "Yes, it is difficult." Plain words, badly suited to capture the depth of such a pain-- words fail even such a one as Mr. Frodo, in the face of that much hurting. Mr. Frodo reaches and squeezes Sam's shoulder, taking comfort and support at the same time he gives it, and Sam covers his master's smooth hand with his own rough one. 

"Am I ready to go out and about?" Frodo makes his tone light, stepping back to display his clothes, and Sam makes a show of eyeing them as critically as his Gaffer might eye a grafted sapling. 

"Near enough, except--" Sam brushes an imaginary speck of dust off the soft leather jacket and tucks the gloves he's found in to its right pocket, and a hat to match in to the left. "Don't go getting chilled, now, Mr. Frodo." 

"I'll come back to you safe and sound, Sam." Frodo says softly, and it's a promise. 

"See that you do," Sam says, a little gruffly, then adds the necessary meek "Sir." He gives Frodo a lopsided smile that isn't quite either servile or apologetic. 

Frodo shakes his head and goes out, chuckling, and Sam smiles-- that's what he had in mind. He picks up Mr. Frodo's bags and hauls them out to the entry-way, then puts own his own coat and trots down to the stables in Hobbiton to fetch back the mayor's pony and cart.


	64. Hay and Honeycakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam visits the Cotton farm and inadvertently encounters Frodo.

Sam finished up his chores, including more than a few made up on the spot and not entirely necessary, seeing how Mr. Frodo was away for the week. Once done, he surveyed the smial, puffing a little from the exertion of filling the wood-boxes. In a basket on the kitchen table, he'd gathered up a few loaves of fresh bread and cakes and some bits of meat and all the other things as wouldn't keep till Mr. Frodo got back, not even in cool storage. 

Always in the past, Mr. Bilbo had given such fare to the hobbits on the Row when he went off unexpected-like. Mr. Frodo not being used to minding such concerns, he hadn't remembered, but Sam knew his master wouldn't mind Sam making it an ongoing tradition, long as he shared it out in fair measure and didn't keep all the best for the Gamgees. 

Feeling heavy with reluctance to leave the smial-- not a little because he knew his dad waited at the end of his walk-- Sam gathered up his basket and set out along the Road. He gave the best of the seed-cakes to the Widow Rumble, whose sweet-tooth was a legend second only to her taste for a drop of good ale. There were some vegetables for Old Noakes, and a bit of milk for the Meadowes family, who had a new babe. Then he hitched a ride on a cart down to give the bread to the Cottons-- who needed it, what with their brood. 

Never mind that Rosie was sitting in the corner of the kitchen farthest away from the hearth, churning butter, and she gave him one of her secret smiles that made him blush all the way to the tips of his ears. Even if Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was going about naming Sam Mr. Frodo's catamite, Rosie Cotton either didn't know what that meant, or didn't care, or maybe both! Sam handed over the bread and got out quick as he could, still being polite, then wandered across the farmyard to the barn. 

Tom stood in the back of the family's old waggon, pitching fresh-dried hay up to Jolly, who tossed it on back in to the barn. Sam thought the weather a bit too damp for that sort of thing, but he supposed it was only going to get worse, what with the sky louring the way it was. 

"Good afternoon, Tom!" 

Tom paused and tossed his hay-fork down next to the stack, then drew the tarp down over all. "Hold up a moment there, Jolly!" He called. "Sam's here." 

Sam still felt a little awkward about spending time with Jolly, even though they'd stood together during the fight in the Dragon, so he shuffled his feet as Jolly came out and sat down, legs dangling from the edge of the loft. "Afternoon, Sam." He regarded Sam gravely, then wiped his brow and the back of his neck with his kerchief; he hadn't no shirt on, and he was sweating in spite of the damp, cool day. "How are you biding?" 

"Right well," Sam flushed a little. 

"We heard you'd moved in up on the Hill," Tom said, a little bit wry-like. "I reckon it's news halfway to Buckland." 

"All the way to Hardbottle, at the least," Sam shrugged, just as wry. 

"Aye, well. There's those who say them Bracegirdles would as soon chew a lie as a tater." Tom regarded Sam mildly, and wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve. 

"Mayhap they're not saying it this time," Sam returned, just as mild, with an apologetic glance at Jolly. 

"Well, some folk ain't saying naught, and those are the ones as have the most sense, I reckon." Jolly plucked a straw out of the hay and wrapped it around his finger. "It ain't nobody's business but your own, Sam, the way I reckon it." 

"You're a good lad, Jolly." Sam felt his heart go out to his friend. "And a good friend." He looked at the waggon-load of hay; once he would have been asked to come help pitch it as a matter of course, if he wasn't busy. "Why don't I help you a bit with that? Mr. Frodo's off with the Mayor, going about to see that all the harvest matters are settled up right; I don't know what to do with myself unless I've got some honest work to do." 

"We thought you'd never ask." Jolly's grin rose quick and honest, and he got up right away to find his haying-fork. Sam knew where the tools were kept, and he went off to fetch one of his own. Soon after, he found himself busy in the loft, the slower job of the two at hand, seeing how every fork-full Tom pitched had got to be carried back and stacked. 

After a bit, the dry hay and the dust started to sting around his neck. Sam hated getting his clothes all of a sweat, so he took off his shirt just like Jolly and Tom already had. It made him feel a bit hot about the face and ears; as it always did, for his old dad's words echoed in his ears every time he did it, about making a spectacle of himself. He's grown used to it, though he may never feel right about it, not to his dying day. 

Sam shrugged the thought away and set in to working harder, the better to drown out the nagging voice of his conscience. Soon the waggon was empty, so he and Tom took it out for another load while Jolly stayed behind to finish the stacking. They nearly had the last two hay-stacks loaded when Tom leaned on his fork and squinted across the field. "Look there, Sam. Ain't that the Mayor's grey pony?" 

Sam squinted after him, and sure enough, it was-- just pulling in over at the Stonybanks farmhouse, which lay tucked snug inside a fold in the land just across the next field. "I reckon you'll be next," he said, not quite reluctant to see his master, but not wanting Mr. Frodo to think Sam has been laying in wait for him, neither. "Let's get this loaded up and back to the barn quick as we can." 

"We'd best. My dad's gone off to the farrier, and somebody will have to meet them." They went at the hay with a will, but before they'd more than half-finished the unlading and the stacking, they heard a clatter of hooves and a rumble of wheels, and Mayor Whitfoot's little trap pulled in to the yard. 

Sam caught a glimpse of it through the loft door, and abandoned what he was doing to go and pull his shirt on proper-like. Jolly cut him a knowing look, but did the same. 

"Ho there, lad! Tom, is it? Young Tom." Mayor Whitfoot clambered off the cart ungracefully, not seeming to mind the mud. "Where's your da, Tom?" 

"Off to the farrier with half the working stock, sir." Tom answered him in kind, genial and respectful in measure. "Though with evening coming on, I daresay he'll be back presently." 

"Your mam, she'll be inside the--? Oh, good afternoon, Mrs. Cotton, good afternoon!" His voice took on a charming note, and Sam stepped forward to see her just emerging from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. Rosie stood peeping out through the window behind her, the curtain pushed askew, one eye visible to the side of the crisp white linen. 

"Welcome, Mayor Whitfoot!" She dipped him a little curtsey, spry as a maid. "Mr. Baggins, welcome. I was just telling Tom this morning that sure as he took off all the day, there'd be business come up I couldn't handle. Rose!" She glanced over her shoulder, and Rose's face disappeared out of the window and reappeared again at the door. "Set up two places at the table, and heat up a pitcher of cider for the guests, there's a good lass." 

Rosie obeyed right away, but didn't look particularly happy about it, to Sam's thinking-- Frodo's presence brought a look of resentment to her pretty face, no doubt about it. He squirmed a bit from his place in the loft, knowing his master hadn't noticed him there. Mr. Frodo looked fine, standing slim and tall next to the mayor. Sam watched quietly, struck by the dignity of his posture-- upright and sober, Frodo seemed more than usually imposing. Very much the master of Bag End he looked, for all his youth. 

"Well, there is a bite to the air, and it goes right to the appetite, eh, Mr. Baggins?" The mayor chuckled. "A drop of hot cider is just what we want to brace us up for the evening round. I reckon young Tom here can show me the byre while it's readying!" 

"A pleasure, Mayor Whitfoot." Tom turned towards the barn and stepped back to the waggon for a moment to fold the tarp down over the hay. As he did, Frodo glanced up to Jolly and found Sam there; he nodded, the only sign of recognition to ruffle his perfect composure. Sam touched his cap, mirroring Jolly, and Frodo took it in stride, his eyes moving away calmly to rest on the waggon of hay. 

"It's a bit wet for haying, lad, but with the rain looking to set in, I suppose it's best not to wait." Mayor Whitfoot eyed the waggon. "Your father's hay, I suppose?" Sam could hear their conversation as Tom fastened down the tarp even though he and Jolly kept working to finish stacking the hay Tom already pitched up. Both of them moved stealthy-like so as not to drown out the words. 

"So far it is, Mayor. We ain't used the common green these past three years, not since the weather's held mild. We've had enough off our own fields to last till midwinter. Plus we had enough forage off our land, and such of his land as Mr. Bilbo Baggins always used to let us graze. And he always gave us the dung from our beasts, too, which ain't common from what I hear tell of those as hasn't got the good fortune to work the Baggins land." 

Sam nodded at that last; as Mr. Bilbo's gardener, he learned early on that Mr. Bilbo didn't keep much stock of his own. His dad explained to him a long time ago how Mr. Bilbo near always bought dried cow-dung for fertilizing the kitchen garden and the flowers and let his tenants gather up what their beasts made, so as not to starve those who hadn't any coin to buy food the way he did, and must rely on whatever they could grow. 

Tom turned a friendly look on Mr. Frodo. "Mr. Bilbo always was good to us Cottons, if I may say, sir, unlike some whose name I don't need mention. I reckon there's more than one family in Hobbiton, no matter if they're landholders or tenants, as is glad you've stayed on at Bag End!" 

"Thank you, Tom." Frodo smiled. "I'm lucky to be there, and glad to have good folk like the Cottons doing service on the land. I plan to honor Bilbo's accord with your father, and I hope he hasn't worried otherwise." 

Tom straightened his back, proud. "Well now, he said you'd do as much, if I may make so bold. 'Mr. Frodo'll make a fine master over Hill,' he said this very morning at the table. 'Long life and health come to him!' he added, or I'm not standing here." 

The Mayor chuckled, elbowing Frodo familiarly. "What did I tell you now? Let's go in and have a look at your cattle, young Tom, if you don't mind." 

"To be sure, Mayor Whitfoot, Mr. Baggins. This way, if you please?" Tom led the way inside, and Sam could make out a few glimpses of his master through the cracks between boards in the loft. "Now, this one here is the stud bull, and we're looking to have a fine calving season off him. He's from a herd raised off towards Staddle, and folks hereabouts think he's got an unusual color, but--" 

Jolly elbowed Sam, who was still busy peeping for Mr. Frodo through the cracks and the mat of straw that covered them. "If we sneak in there'll be extra cider and a honey-cake for us, I daresay, what with Rosie being sweet on you and all." He hopped out of the loft door without waiting for Sam's answer. 

Torn between making enough noise to call him back and the promise of one of Mrs. Cotton's piping-hot honeycakes, Sam gave up and trailed along. 

Mrs. Cotton looked harried as she fussed over the hearth, wielding a long-handled ash-shovel and working to mound coals over the poker for mulling cider, but she still had a warm smile for Sam nonetheless, and Rosie had a smile plus a dimple. Sam cleared his throat, nervous, and ducked her eyes, wishing he hadn't come-- but he had, and he had to put his best face on it. Honeycakes lay on the table, still piping-hot from the oven, and the air smelled so good Sam's mouth watered in spite of himself. 

"I know why you've come in trailing Samwise, Jolly!" Mrs. Cotton chuckled. "Lads your age can smell a baking come out of an oven a hundred fathoms off and up-wind. Well, you're in luck, for I want rid of the ones off the end of the rack so Mr. Frodo can have the best from the middle-- not that the end cakes are bad, mind; they just have a bit more brown on 'em. Don't burn your fingers! Rosie, get over and help those two before they pull the good ones apart getting the ends, lass." 

Rosie hurried over with two plates and a knife, moving deft and quick to ease two of the little cakes off the baking sheet-- and Sam noted his own wasn't one from the end, neither. Jolly chuckled even as Mrs. Cotton clucked, but there was plenty left for the mayor and for Frodo. Rosie reached for the honey-pot, ladling a measure out over Sam's cake first, then over Jolly's, the golden honey flowing thick and slow over the hot cake, pooling in the cracks and mounds and sinking in. 

She went about basting the rest while Jolly took Sam to fetch a mug of milk from the stone crock in the cool pantry. When the two returned, Mr. Frodo and the Mayor were stepping inside, and Farmer Cotton had got home, seemingly, just in the nick of time. Jolly and Sam lingered in the hall, for there wasn't much room now in the kitchen, what with all the bustle. They watched as Farmer Cotton and Tom fussed about near as bad as the womenfolk getting the two seated and served. 

They took their duties hosting a deal more seriously than Rosie, Sam noticed. Her helpfulness and general good nature seemed much reduced when it came to Mr. Frodo. Pert as you please, she made a point of serving the mayor first and giving him the bigger portion into the bargain, saying not a word to Mr. Frodo, but laughing and flirting with old Flourdumpling while Mr. Frodo sat patiently, waiting for his cider. 

Jolly shook his head as Mrs. Cotton poured for Mr. Frodo and handed the pitcher to Tom, then took hold of Rosie's arm and hustled her well behind the proceedings. While Farmer Cotton fetched the poker and went about the mulling, she held her daughter there and delivered a tense and lengthy remark into her ear. The conversation finished with what might have looked like an affectionate slap on the backside, but popped smartly enough to be heard across the room. Her outstretched forefinger then firmly directed Rosie towards the sink and out of the way. Mr. Frodo and the mayor politely ignored the exchange, conversing across the table with their hosts. 

Rosie slunk away, her face thunderous at the insult of being spanked like a child. "Don't never let her know you saw that," Jolly warned Sam, who nodded hastily. 'Twas an indignity not to be borne for a lass who was near a tween! And all his fault, seemingly, for she wouldn't have no reason to resent Mr. Frodo, without him. Sam sighed, wondering again at his welcome in the household. His honey-cake didn't taste near as good now, somehow. 

"Now Sam." A little smile lifted the corner of Jolly's mouth, and Sam remembered with a little shame that Jolly could always read him like Mr. Bilbo could read a book. "She ain't hardly reasonable, given how you scuttle off like a field mouse whenever she lays an eye on you. It ain't like you lead her on." 

"Like I did you?" Sam's voice felt harsh, though he kept it low. 

Jolly sighed, but his eyes held Sam's kindly. "Finish your cake, Sam, and we'll go out the back way. It ain't like I didn't know where your heart was set from the very first minute." 

It wasn't like Rosie didn't either, Sam reckoned, but he finished up the cake nonetheless, washing it down with the last of the milk. He waited while Jolly sneaked through the kitchen and put their dishes in the sink for Rosie, who didn't look up at him when he did it. 

Jolly was quiet and quick, but Mr. Frodo caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, seemingly and turned his gaze away to Sam for half a moment, the corner of his mouth curling up in a rueful half-smile. Sam felt the hall and the kitchen and the whole Cotton family vanish, just fade right away, for that instant while Mr. Frodo's eyes held his. It warmed him to his bones, like the cider in Mr. Frodo's cup would warm his belly and drive away the chill. 

Jolly elbowed him out of the pleasant daze that lingered after Mr. Frodo's gaze moved on. "That hay won't stack itself, I reckon. I'll pitch and you stack, and when I run out I'll come up and help you finish." He eyed Sam knowingly. "If you can keep your mind on the job well enough not to stab yourself in the foot, that is!" 

"I'll warrant I can," Sam chuckled as they slipped out and went 'round to the barn. "Though mayhap Rosie wishes I would, so she could nurse me well again." 

"Don't go giving her any mad notions," Jolly scolded, but his tone was merry. "She's able to come up with plenty of those on her own!" 

"I'm just as glad I don't know more," Sam admitted, and they went out together, chuckling like in the old days, and made quick work of the hay. They finished up not long after the mayor and Mr. Frodo rattled away-- and Sam was pleased to see Mr. Frodo pull on the gloves and cap he'd pressed on his master in the morning. 

"Will you stay to supper, Sam?" 

"I reckon not, Jolly. Much as I like your mother's cooking, I daresay Rosie doesn't need the likes of me hanging about. Besides, I need to get this home to my Gaffer." Sam retrieved his near-empty bag and hoisted it easily over his shoulder. 

"Well, come back when you can," Tom clapped Sam's back in farewell, and Sam trotted off down the Road in Mr. Frodo's wake, figuring he'd best look in for his dad at the Green Dragon before going home.


	65. A Melancholy Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo returns to Bag End, saddened by losing Bilbo.

Mr. Frodo came back to Bag End on a cold, clear day, the sort of day that made you feel you could see every leaf and blade of grass on the horizon just as sharp and crisp as you could see the ones in front of your face, with a spice of winter hanging in the air like a promise. To Sam, the world smelled crisp and sharp, like coming snow, and somehow it seemed winter was something you wanted right away. On a day like this, you could believe winter would be all snow and sleighs and hot mulled ale by a fire, with none of the slush of ice and mud in the ruts of the Road, nor the grey weary days without a sight of the Sun, nor the stark bare trees shivering against the colourless sky. 

But looking at Mr. Frodo as he climbed down from the mayor's pony trap and waved him a cordial goodbye as he clattered off down the Road, Sam could see that side of winter nonetheless. His face was smooth and closed, like he'd got years older in just the past week. When he looked about the smial, as warm and welcoming as Sam could make it with fires lit on the hearths and a last few flowers cut and nodding in vases, and with bread baking in the kitchen and all, it still wasn't quite right. Near as Sam could figure it, Mr. Frodo looked like he could feel an icy draft blowing under the door to curl his toes and make him huddle in his blankets without getting up of a morning. 

After Mr. Frodo went in to the study to read until supper, Sam thought he could guess at the cause of it: Mr. Frodo was missing Mr. Bilbo, same as Sam was himself. When he'd seen to everything he could, Sam just let Mr. Frodo be with a nice fire in the study, a lap-robe near at hand, and a glass of wine. He made himself busy tidying the house and finishing the cooking. 

Dinner was a quiet affair, and shouldn't have been as formal as it was. Mr. Frodo took one look at Mr. Bilbo's empty chair sitting at the head of the table in the dining room and turned firmly away from it, going in to Sam's warm kitchen and taking a seat at the table there. But it was like he carried a weight on his shoulders, all sad and pensive as he ate his stew and responded to Sam's talk in polite, distracted murmurs. He kept his hands in his pockets like his fingers felt cold, even though Sam was sweating a little in the heat from the cook-fires. 

Sam took care of all that needed doing, washing up and then going about until there was naught left to be finished and he found himself in his own room. He wondered whether he ought to go to bed just yet, and sat for a moment watching the slow drips fall from his clock in to their basin. Mr. Frodo's mournful, serious mood was catching; he felt a certain melancholy tugging at his natural good spirits and settling around him like the dim of evening drawing over the folds and hollows of the land. 

He looked about at the room that had been given to him, gazing at its smooth, fresh-painted plaster walls, still half-stunned to find himself here in Bag End, his clothes hanging on pegs inside the wardrobe and his few bits of things arrayed on shelves too fine to hold their like. He'd two basins of fresh water, one for face and one for feet, and a bit of fire, and a thick soft rag rug on the tile floor, and candles in the sconces, and the whole place was as big as the family room in his father's hole-- and full of memories besides. 

Mr. Frodo had tended his burns here, had sat next to him upon the mattress and sung love to him in strange Elvish words, and there wasn't no place in Bag End that he loved more. He couldn't be truly sad, not here, it seemed. 

But for all that, things still weren't right. The silence in the Smial hung heavy; Sam wasn't entirely sure why, but somehow it felt heavier than mere sorrow or worry over Mr. Bilbo's absence. Sam couldn't seem to put his finger on it. He had more feelings stirring in his breast than he could put a name to, and all of them so much in conflict they near made him dizzy, chasing each other in circles like a dog after its own tail, spinning and never catching nothing till it fell right over. 

He stood, half-meaning to go and see if Mr. Frodo was all right, but uncertainty stopped him. He couldn't picture himself walking in to Mr. Frodo's room for a talk just as bold as brass, and them the only two in the smial; Mr. Frodo might not know how he meant it and he might not be welcome. 

Sam sighed, falling still with his hand on the knob and slumping forward till his forehead touched the cool wood of the door. Fancy Mr. Bilbo going off like that! And fancy him arranging everything beforetimes, too-- Sam hadn't been ready, for all he'd half-feared something would happen. He ought to have guessed, ought to have known.... 

He hesitated for a time, trying to make up his mind what to do, and finally settled upon a compromise. He might not be ready to go in to Mr. Frodo's room, but he could at least walk down to the kitchen and take a final turn about the smial, banking the fires and making right sure everything was in order before he turned in for the night. 

Sam pushed his door open and padded down the hall as softly as only a hobbit could. There was a light under Mr. Frodo's door, enough that Sam knew he likely had a candle lit, but not a lamp. He hadn't moved in to the master bedroom, though Sam supposed he might, when Mr. Bilbo's going had grown older and wasn't such a fresh wound in Mr. Frodo's heart no more. 

The kitchen was already spotless, and Sam had naught more to do than fill the kettle and hang it on its hook, ready to swing over the morning cookfire, and then shovel some ashes over the coals. Still, he knew Mr. Frodo would hear him pumping the water, and if he wanted, he could come out for a bit of company. 

Sam covered the half a loaf and the wheel of cheese on the table with a square of linen to keep any flies away, then padded into the parlour and occupied himself banking the early autumn fires, shoveling ash over the coals. It was mostly nervous fidgeting, for like as not they wouldn't be needed during the day, and they'd go out before the next nightfall. But it made him feel better, so he kept on until every glowing orange spark was dimmed and the only light in the room was from the moon and the stars-- and a growing, wavering glow from behind, someone approaching with a candle. 

When he straightened up, he could feel the weight of his master's eyes on him even before he turned to the door. Frodo stood there, with his left palm cupped around the flame of the candle he bore, its light flowing between his fingers. He wore only a linen nightshirt that left his legs bare from the knees down. His face was guarded, only his eyes expressive as they followed Sam's movement-- the brisk motion of him slapping a film of ash off his hands onto his breeches. 

"Can I fix you aught to help you sleep, a cup of chamomile or some warm milk with cinnamon, sir?" Sam kept his voice low and soothing. 

Mr. Frodo shook his head ever so slightly, the way he held himself making him seem somehow frail-- uncertain, as though he hardly knew what to do upon venturing out into the hole at this hour and finding Sam still present in the smial. 

"I can fetch you a book," Sam offered, tentative. "And something to wrap up in; it's a bit chilly." 

"No, thank you." Very quiet, Mr. Frodo's voice, and Sam trembled to hear it, tenderness surging in his breast, and love, and fear. 

"I ain't in the way, am I, sir?" he blurted, twisting one foot in place on the floor and wishing he hadn't said it, for fear the answer might be yes. 

"No." Equally quiet. Mr. Frodo stepped forward and set his candle on Mr. Bilbo's rickety old writing desk before he moved past Sam to the window. Sam stayed where he was, listening to his own heart pounding in his chest. "Where do you suppose Bilbo is?" 

"There's no telling." Sam fretted as Mr. Frodo swung the window open, letting in the chilly, damp autumn air. It smelled of woodsmoke and the spicy tang of the first turning leaves. "Maybe he's still in the Shire." Sam didn't believe it, though, even as he said it. He reckoned Mr. Bilbo meant to follow Balin. He might even be clear to Rivendell, by now. 

"Maybe." Frodo leaned out to catch a glimpse of the Moon. "But I think he meant to travel fast, and far." 

"I don't rightly know what's East of Bree, other than Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains and the Lonely Mountain with Dale at its feet-- and that Beorn, and all that Mr. Bilbo used to talk of." Sam dared to step close to Mr. Frodo's shoulder. "Seeing as how I've never been as far as Buckland, myself, begging your pardon." Frodo knew this well, for he had accompanied Sam on the very journey that had taken him farthest in that direction and away from the home of his birth. Sam could still remember him, leggy as a colt and bare as the day he was born, lying in the river-water clear as diamonds with his skin a-glowing with health and pink from the chill, his head resting upon Sam's leg. 

Frodo's eyes were closed as he scented the night. "I wonder what that is like," he murmured to Sam. "Never going farther from home than your legs can carry you in a day. There must be something very comforting in knowing there is nothing you need that isn't right at hand." 

"There is that, sir." Sam's throat threatened to close; he wondered what wasn't right at hand, other than Mr. Bilbo, that Mr. Frodo might find himself lacking. The notion that Sam himself couldn't provide it was a hard one to swallow. "But there are times I can't help myself, and I wonder how things are somewhere else, as you might say. Take Mr. Pippin, now, and Mr. Merry. They don't talk like Hobbiton folk nor even like each other, and that's something so simple it seems a marvel, them living so close and all, and yet so far away. I wonder what else is different thereabouts." 

"In Buckland, many people live in little houses, not holes," Frodo mused, still staring out into the night. "But for the most part, things are just the same. People are no better or worse-- they gossip, they fight, they tend their homes and fields, and they love. Children are born, and hobbits grow old and die." 

Not Mr. Bilbo, Sam thought, and for the first time, it occurred to him what a marvel that was, and to truly wonder why. "For the most part," he agreed, thoughtful. 

Mr. Frodo shivered, and Sam clucked his tongue, turning to the couch and fetching back a lap-robe that lay folded over the arm. He shook it out and settled it over his master's shoulders; Mr. Frodo turned to look at him. 

"Thank you, Sam." Terribly grave were his words and his look, so grave they near frightened Sam. Mr. Frodo seemed so much older, and that only in the space of a few days' time! Like he wasn't the merry lad Sam had once known; like he'd never given Sam a shy look nor touched his mouth to Sam's, all burning bright with wanting, almost like he wasn't even in the room somehow. Sam shifted his feet, unsettled; it felt like some part of Mr. Frodo had left Sam alone and gone off with Mr. Bilbo, and Sam didn't know what to do about this strange creature who'd been left behind. 

"Ah, Mr. Frodo, don't," Sam took a slow breath, trying to calm the sudden terrible flutter of his fears. "Don't look so sad, sir, for your Sam don't know how to mend it. Won't you let me make you a cup of tea? A bit of sleep would do you good, and things might seem brighter in the morning." 

"All right," Frodo agreed without eagerness, and Sam stepped away, giving a worried glance back, then went to rake out and build up the fire in the kitchen and swung the kettle over it. Mr. Frodo joined him in the kitchen, but didn't light no more than a candle, sitting down quiet at the table and watching Sam work. 

Sam tingled from the awareness of those eyes following him, but didn't look up, disconcerted by Frodo's strange mood and wondering what he ought to do-- he'd wondered all afternoon, or rather, all week-- ever since Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin took their leave. Some part of him had spent the day quivering with eagerness and fear and wanting, so that he couldn't breathe proper. 

There wasn't no-one to stop them now; no Mr. Bilbo to frown or snort or make a point of keeping one or both of them under his eye until he tired of it and decided to send Sam off to run his legs down to nubs. No Mr. Merry to sit quiet-like with Mr. Frodo, talking to him and keeping his attention. No Mr. Pippin to shatter the peace of the house, running about and prying into every nook and cranny. 

No Lobelia, scowling about the place as though she owned it, with a sulky Lotho in tow, their eyes casting daggers at Sam. Sam was right glad Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin had been about to help deal with them; he'd have hated to ask any one of Mr. Frodo's kin to open up bags and pockets at the door so as they didn't carry away aught that didn't belong to them. It was just another thing Mr. Bilbo had anticipated and provided for, seemingly. 

Surely, Sam thought, that had to mean Mr. Bilbo intended more than appeared on the surface when he arranged for Sam to stay. He must have known what was bound to happen once he had gone. 

He quashed a flare of heat in his belly and set himself back to the task at hand. He set out a cup and saucer and a little jug of milk, found a spoon and a jar still half-full of golden honeycomb, and set them on the table. By then the teakettle had begun to hiss and steam, spitting a drop or two from its spout on to the fire, so Sam swung it out and tucked a cloth about the handle to lift it, pouring his master's tea. 

Mr. Frodo added a bit of milk and honey to sweeten the tea, and held it between his hands, inhaling the steam-- he looked fragile again inside the thick, puffy folds of the lap-robe, but this time he seemed younger than his years, almost the foundling in the garden, hazy in Sam's memory but beautiful for all of that. 

Sam started; those were tears on Mr. Frodo's cheeks-- he was weeping, for only the second time in Sam's memory. 

"Mr. Frodo," he moaned aloud, distraught, already halfway to Frodo's side before he'd taken a step. Modesty and uncertainty would not brook this need; he slid onto the bench and gathered Frodo into his arms as quick as he could. 

"He never said goodbye," Mr. Frodo choked the words out like they hurt him. "Just like my mother and my father; without any farewell, he was gone." 

"Oh, Mr. Frodo." Answering tears sprang to Sam's eyes too. "It was just that way with my mam, too, and I miss her more than words can tell, even to this very day." Shame burned him for the lustful thoughts he'd been thinking while his master suffered. He hadn't thought how it must be for Frodo, just like Mr. Bilbo had died, not just gone off to have adventures in the Wild. "But Mr. Bilbo, now, he's still alive, and it might be he'll come back, or maybe someday you'll go and find him." 

He pulled Mr. Frodo a bit closer, trying to soothe him, the two of them awkward on the bench. "You've had a hard week," he murmured. "What with the party and Mr. Bilbo going, and near everyone in the Shire turning up for gifts and all, and then going about with the mayor." 

Mr. Frodo sighed, the force of it shivering his narrow shoulders, and he settled against Sam, all resistance melting out of him. Sam dared to stroke his master's back, watching as his lashes closed and lay like a fringe of sooty velvet his cheek-- the confession and the brief storm of tears seemed to have wearied him; most of his tension had ebbed when Sam's arms slid about his slender frame. 

"Let's get you off to bed, sir." Sam got Frodo on his feet, staying close, and in his heart he blessed Mr. Bilbo, understanding something more of why he was here than he had only a moment ago. The old hobbit might not have approved of the growing connection between his nephew and his gardener, but he'd known Frodo would be hurting and he'd known who'd be best to comfort him. 

Sam picked up Mr. Frodo's neglected cup and brought it along, keeping an arm around his master's waist as they stepped down the hall and into Mr. Frodo's bedroom, where Frodo let the lap-robe fall with a sigh and crawled between the sheets of his bed. Sam set the cup down and fussed with the coverlet, tucking Mr. Frodo up snug, and then restored the tea to him, standing back a little to watch him drink it. 

Cloudy-eyed but calm, Frodo finished the tea without fuss and handed the cup to Sam, then rolled over. Sam could see him giving in to sleep already, and marveled at the strength that had held his master firm through the past few days. He trembled that of all those whom Mr. Frodo could trust, he was the only one who was allowed to see Mr. Frodo unguarded, in such a moment of weakness. 

"Good night, sir," Sam murmured as Frodo's breathing grew slow and even. He didn't quite dare climb up on the mattress and curl up next to his master, not without an invitation. "If you need anything, you just give a shout, and I'll be right next door. I ain't going nowhere, not without you. Nowhere at all." 

He waited until Mr. Frodo was fast asleep before he softly let himself out, and he slept with his door open, the better to hear in case Mr. Frodo called out for him in the night.


	66. A Plan for Walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam decide what to do with their leisure time.

Clouds have gathered in the night, and a grey drizzle of rain falls on the Shire, but in spite of it, day dawns warm and cozy at Bag End. Sam's little clock makes a chime much more pleasant than May's sharp call, and his mattress is soft when he blinks and stirs. The worst thing about mornings, even here, is having to leave the bed and relinquish his blankets. But even that is more pleasant than at Number Three, for there's no chilly draft blowing under the door to nip Sam's toes, his mirror is whole and fine, and the rug by his bed is soft and thick. 

He doesn't have to go out tramping in the chill and the muck to go to work, either; he can yawn and stretch, put on his breeches and his shirt and his morning weskit, and wash his head and his neck in the basin. Then all he has to do is pad quietly down the hall to the kitchen and light the fire right away, raking up the coals he banked before bed and laying out the wood that is ready waiting in the wood-box. 

If they don't send up a smoke within a few minutes, he must light the fire again. Today the coals have burned low and he is impatient, so he doesn't wait. His sharp knife slices up curls of seasoned yellow oak for kindling, the faint acrid scent of the wood a pleasant one, familiar and homelike. Then he strikes a spark with his flint, and at once, the wood catches, a delicate crackle of flame that leaves tiny writhing curls of red at first as it devours the fine splinters, and then grows. Sam blows softly, and the flame spreads and settles deeper. He piles sticks on carefully, letting the little fire breathe, until the flames finally lick up through the spaces between the logs, reaching towards the kettle to warm the water for Mr. Frodo's morning tea. 

Seeing as how Mr. Frodo felt under the weather the previous evening, Sam sets in to make a special breakfast for him. New mushrooms are sitting in the pantry, smelling like damp, fresh-turned earth where they sit in a crockery bowl under a clean cloth. Sam takes them and a bit of new butter, some smoked sausage and cured ham, and decides to make an omelet, which he will serve along with scones and butter and honey. He has ferreted out Mr. Bilbo's secret recipe for scones; he knows the secret ingredients and their proportions. Mayhap no other hobbit in the Shire could say the same. Mr. Frodo will be glad of that, Sam thinks, and a glow of pride fills him, warming his belly. 

When all is in readiness, Sam fills a pitcher and pads back down the hall to tap at Mr. Frodo's door, then steps inside. "Morning, Mr. Frodo," he greets the tousled head on the pillow, which stirs in answer. He leaves the pitcher on the table and goes to light the fire first-- its coals have lasted better than the kitchen fire, so there is no need for flint and tinder-- and then rises to light the lamp with a spill and open the window curtains, revealing the dreary weather only after making it seem bright and cheerful inside. Mr. Frodo rises, nightshirt rumpled and creased, hanging unevenly below his knees, and sluggishly moves to wash while Sam slips out again. 

The butter has melted, and Sam stirs up the egg mixture and pours it into a pan, letting it sizzle, keeping half an eye on the oven where the scones are browning. This is a dance of quick, careful timing which he perfected long before Bilbo left. He flips the omelet with a quick twist of his wrist, catching it expertly, and replaces it on the stove, pulling the scones out just as Frodo comes down the hall, still buttoning his weskit. There are pillow-wrinkles pressed in to his cheek, but he looks awake now, and his tangle of hair has been tamed. 

Frodo sits down in front of his mug, and Sam maneuvers the tray of hot scones with one hand and the hook for the kettle with the other. He manages to send the scones cascading on to a plate and puts it on the table, then uses both hands to manage the kettle so as to be sure he won't miss the pour and scald Mr. Frodo. After the tea is poured, the omelet is ready, so he wraps his hand in a cloth and maneuvers the pan off the stove, deftly working a fork under the edge and flipping it on to a plate. He transfers the steaming plate to the table in a twinkling. Frodo smiles at him, a little tired but appreciative, and picks up his fork. 

"You made Bilbo's scones," Frodo murmurs as he cuts the omelet and lifts a bite to his lips. Sam watches as he chews, pride swelling as Frodo's lips turn upward, a sure sign of pleasure. "I didn't think he left his recipe." 

"I learned it watching him mornings for the past year," Sam admits. "He must have known what I was up to, but he didn't say aught about it. Honey?" He spoons some out and drizzles it over the scone on Frodo's plate, knowing how much Frodo likes it. 

"Thank you." Frodo sighs, taking another bite and chewing, his eyelids sinking shut. "This is good, Sam. Aren't you having any?" 

"I'll make myself a bit of a scramble," Sam goes back to the stove, adds more butter to the hot pan, and pours in the rest of the egg and mushroom and meat mixture. He scrambles it up quickly and joins Frodo at the table before half his master's omelet is gone-- Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo were never ones to stand on the ceremony of having Sam serve instead of sitting down to eat, not when there wasn't company about the place. 

He keeps half an eye on Frodo while they eat. Though his master ain't quite what he'd call right, he likes the ease in how Frodo treats him. He was afraid it would feel awkward to be here just with Mr. Frodo, especially seeing as how they ain't done aught yet and Sam doesn't know when they may. 

Finishing his scrambled eggs, Sam dishes them up and pours himself a cup of tea, then sits shyly across from Frodo with his plate. He reaches for salt and a bit of pepper, and begins to eat. He thinks of Daisy and May and Marigold and his Gaffer, sitting down just the four of them to breakfast where once were five. Not long now, and Daisy'll be out in her own homestead, and then May, and finally little Mari; what will become of the Gaffer and Number Three then? 

"Sam?" Frodo's eyes are soft, and Sam realizes he is sitting still with his fork poised between plate and mouth, his eyes prickling. 

"Just thinkin' about home, Mr. Frodo." He hastily puts the forkful in his mouth and chews. "The girls won't know what to do with themselves of a morning without a brother to torment, I reckon." 

Frodo gives him a sober little smile. "Perhaps not. Don't worry about your Gaffer, Sam. He'll settle in when he learns I don't mean to toy with you and then drop you like a worn-out plaything." 

Oh, and just that fast Sam's heart is beating like a drum, all his blood surging through his veins at an eager tweener race. He balances carefully between excitement and uncertainty, keeping his voice light. "And what do you mean to do with your Sam?" The tone that bears question of his heart betrays something of all of his feelings-- eagerness, fear, and shy invitation. 

Frodo smiles, warm and serious and a little sad. "I mean to get to know him," he says earnestly, reaching across the table to lay his soft hand on Sam's hard one. "When is the last time we talked, Sam? I mean, truly talked for hours, the way we once did." 

Sam starts to answer-- last night, of course, or... yesterday?-- and then falls still, looking into the golden-green depths of his tea and inhaling its outdoor scent for a long moment. He and Mr. Frodo used to be out and about all the time when he was a little lad. Even up in to Sam's teens, when Sam's work was done they had gone on walks together, wondering about the plants and the animals they saw, or prattling about elves and stories or sharing a bit of market gossip. They hadn't done none of that since... well, since before Sam went off to Tighfield, seemingly. 

"It's been a bit, now, hasn't it." Sam bites at his lip. "A deal of water under Hobbiton Bridge, as you may say." 

"Yes," Frodo agrees, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. "I've missed it." He takes a slow, deep breath, and his eyes hold Sam's. "It's all very well for you to go about the gardens and serve at table, but... I want to know you again, Sam." 

"Well, I ain't changed much," Sam says slowly. "But you, now.... coming into your own and all...." 

"You've come into your own, as well," Frodo tells him, soft and earnest. "You may not be of age yet, Sam, but your father doesn't govern you any longer, does he?" 

"That he don't," Sam says just as softly. "And I've my own job of work to do, whether he says me yea or nay." 

"As do I," Frodo agrees, a faint frown pinching his forehead as he glances away towards the window, towards the light. It catches in his lashes, and paints delicate shadows across his cheek. "I've much to learn about myself, as well as you." 

"Mayhap that's true for me as well." Sam pushes away a twinge of disappointment; he's waited this long, hasn't he? Mayhap they both ought to know their place afore they go changing it. Or mayhap his master is afraid-- afraid he won't know how to treat Sam, or Sam won't know how to treat him. Afraid of that Lobelia and her gossip-mongering and what it might do to him-- or Sam. To tell the perfect truth, Sam is afraid too, what with that business about losing Bag End. 

They eat thoughtfully, and in the quiet, there is no strain or discomfort. Sam is thinking of Frodo's kisses-- of the heat in them, and the passion; he thinks there won't be no stopping Mr. Frodo whenever he gets over his grieving for Mr. Bilbo and lets himself get worked up again. Sam reckons all he's got to do is wait for it; this sorrowful mood of his master's don't seem likely to last past the winter. 

"Whenever the rain is dried up and done, Mr. Frodo, why don't we go on a nice long walk?" Sam suggests, hoping it's his place, and near enough to sure it won't be unwelcome for him to do so. "Up towards Overhill, mayhap, or Nobottle and Bindbole, where there's plenty of trees. My Gaffer says autumn's the right season for wanderlust, and many's the day I've wanted to be out kicking about through the leaves this time o' the year." 

"A wonderful plan, Sam." Frodo's smile is even sadder now, his eyes distant, and Sam wishes he hadn't said naught of wanderlust; that brought up Mr. Bilbo, sure as a tater sends up shoots from its eye. 

"Then I'll be making ready for it," Sam says stoutly. "For I reckon this rain won't last forever. A week or two ought to dry things out, and if it don't turn too cold, we ought to go as soon as we may, for the year ain't getting no younger as it turns, begging your pardon." 

"It will turn cold soon," Frodo voices Sam's unspoken thought, still pensive. "Yes, I think we should go quickly." He rises and takes his own plate to the basin, and waves off Sam's attempt to help. "Finish your breakfast, Sam." His tone is firm, but Sam can hear warmth in it. "I'm not about to have you waiting on me hand and foot." 

Sam nods, though it is his pleasure to do so, and takes another bite of eggs. Perhaps a walk will be just the thing to bring Mr. Frodo out of himself.


	67. A Rare Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo overhears an unusual story.

Sam learned a long time ago when his mam died that the days go right on passing whether you're disposed to go along with them or not, and so they do in the wake of Mr. Bilbo's party. Mr. Frodo don't seem to care much if they do or no; he's gliding around the house like a ghost or summat such, half the time not even seeming to know Sam's about. 

Sam does what he can to keep the place warm and cheerful in spite of the long spell of filthy weather that follows in the wake of the Party, but there ain't much he can do, not being mischievous and cheerful by nature like Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, who've gone off to their own families and won't be back till Yule or thereabouts. The rain don't help either, what with the clouds settling in like they mean to stay the winter. 

He keeps Frodo warm and clad and fed and talks to him as much as he may off and on during the day, but his master don't do much but answer, polite and sad. Sam wishes he had more of a hand for tales and poetry, but he finds himself tongue-tied more often than not; he reckons his japes and doggerels ain't fit for hearing. 

And so the time passes. There's a melancholy sprite a-riding Mr. Frodo, or leastways that's what old Widow Rumble says one October Highday when she sees him going about half in this world and half in the next, with dark circles under his eyes and not a smile to be had. 

So when one of the last rare days of fading summer comes around the middle of the month, a bright warm morning with only a thread of chill hanging in the air under the shade of the old oak and the rain dries up at last, Sam is glad of it. He opens up the smial for an airing while he and Mr. Frodo wait for the ground to dry out enough to go tramping in the woods the way they've planned. 

Sam tempts Mr. Frodo with a bit of special baking-- his favorite sweet biscuits, delicate shortbread with nuts baked in and a sprinkle of sugar on top, and he mentions Mr. Frodo's favorite garden seat as the place he'll be bringing them presently, when they're done. 

Mr. Frodo smiles at him, a bit wan, but he obeys, going out with a book in his hand and a warm shirt on him. He tucks himself up in his favorite nook under the grape arbor, well out of the breeze and hidden from the Road, but where the afternoon Sun will find him as it starts its slow descent towards the western horizon. 

Sam finishes with the biscuits and loads a plate, and pours a mug of milk, too, then carries them out to his master, carefully setting them on the bench at his side. Mr. Frodo smiles politely and lifts the plate, smelling the hot, fresh-baked biscuits, his lashes closing to lie sooty-velvet against his cheeks, which are brightening a little with the warmth of the sun. 

"Thank you, Sam." He offers the plate as he takes a biscuit, and Sam takes one for himself. Frodo nibbles his biscuit as Sam takes a hearty bite, and they chew together, looking out across the land, where the bare branches of the trees seem to lift with the light breeze, the better to warm themselves at the Sun. 

"There won't be many more days like this in the year, I'm thinking," Sam thinks aloud. "I'd best finish up the last of the pruning, and mulch in a few beds against the winter." 

"Yes, do it before it gets cold and damp again. I hate to see you out working in the weather." Frodo yawns a bit, stretching, and Sam dares to let his eyes linger on the ebb and flow of his master's limbs under the cloth of his shirt, which stretches taut across his shoulders as he rolls them in their sockets. 

Mr. Frodo ain't seemed much in the notion for kissing and holding since Mr. Bilbo went, and the waiting has been a sore trial for Samwise. His throat suddenly dry, he licks his lips, and Frodo offers him a sip from the mug. He takes it, but it ain't what he's thirsty for, and that's a fact. 

As he drinks, he looks over the lip of the mug to where Frodo sits chewing his bite of biscuit, his eyes thoughtful and distant, the light of the Sun setting deep russet highlights in his curls and gilding the curve of his cheek with a lover's touch. There is a crumb at the corner of his mouth and a smudge of milk on his lip, and he is beautiful in a simple, direct way that takes all of Sam's breath and crushes it right out of his chest, leaving him to tremble and ache. 

He wants Mr. Frodo, wants him right now, right here, in the arbor. If he was a bit bolder, he'd kneel right down, and forget about the biscuits; they don't matter a bit. He'd take Mr. Frodo out and put his mouth on him and suckle until he had his fill before he let go, he would-- if only he knew he could do such as that, and do it proper, but he hasn't never tried it before, and he don't know how. For all of his dreaming under the coverlet with his hands busy, he's too shy yet to put himself forth. 

Frodo opens his book again, finding his discarded place, and the chance is lost. Taking another biscuit, Sam excuses himself and goes to the potting shed, where his pruning shears and his shovel await. He gets down the wicked-pointed shears and a whetstone, and is putting a good edge on them for trimming the thick of the rose-canes, when a tap at the door startles him and he looks up to find Tom Cotton peeping in. 

"Sam!" Tom beams on him. "Jolly reckoned ye'd be working out of doors, what with it such a pretty day and all." 

"Come in, Tom!" Sam greets his friend cheerfully; Tom has a certain mischievous look about him, one that Sam's seen before. Tom's a fine hand with a tale, and he likes 'em with a bit of sauce to 'em, what's more. The look he's wearing promises there's a rare tale to be had, if naught interrupts them before it's done. Mayhap he can make Mr. Frodo smile, where Sam hasn't done it. 

"I will, at that... ye've a bit of work to do, Sam, it seems!" Tom picks up a saw and eyes its blade. "These tools could use a bit of winter grease, or they'll rust through." 

"I've been that busy minding the smial, I haven't done the greasing yet." Sam nods Tom comfortably towards the grease-pot. "But if you've a mind to help, I've made biscuits fresh this morning, and I'll give you a few before you go your way." 

"Well, I meant to stay a bit." Tom reaches for the grease-pot and a bit of ragged cloth. "I've got a story to tell ye, Sam, and ye won't soon be forgetting it!" 

"I thought you might." Sam chuckles. "You look full to bursting with it." He looks towards the window; the arbor is just on the other side of a bit of hedge, and it comes to him that Mr. Frodo might enjoy Tom's tale too, if only Tom weren't too bashful to tell it in front of the Master. "It's fair dusty in here," he judges, and goes to open the bit of window. The hedge is thin, but Tom can't see the arbor from where he's standing, and won't know Mr. Frodo is about. 

"That'll set it to rights soon enough." Tom settles next to the heap of tools. "Ye can sharpen and I'll grease them up while I'm talking." 

"Talk away, then," Sam says, and puts aside the shears to take up a hoe instead. Mr. Frodo has raised his head, such that Sam can tell he's listening. He wonders for a moment whether he ought to leave the window up-- and if he does, whether he ought to stop Tom, or warn him. Best not, he decides; what's done is done, for better or worse. 

Tom starts in with a will, relishing his chance to spin a story Sam ain't heard. "Well, Sam, I'm sure ye ain't forgot Jolly telling ye about that day a fortnight or more back when we got up and all the sheep was gone, and the door to the fold standing open just as wide as ye please." 

"I ain't," Sam nods, working his whetstone. But Tom's still talking, and won't cut out a bit of his tale, not for Sam already knowing that bit, for it would spoil his fun. 

"We found 'em two fields over, huddled up against the corner of the hedge, and had a morning of it trying to drive 'em home! It's a good thing they didn't turn to the right hand when they come out, or they'd have followed the Road and fetched up in the Water and drownded, not having no more sense than sheep do. 

"At any rate, Nibs caught it hot for leaving the gate latch undone, and we thought we'd seen the last of that. But not a week ago-- it was two days before last Highday-- Rosie comes in from the byre sayin' there's footprints in the muck where there oughtn't to be any, and my dad, he doesn't pay her much mind, for ain't that why we keep the geese out in the barnyard in a pen? And the dogs tied up at the house and the byre besides-- all to give alarm if some stranger comes sneaking about. They ain't made no noise, for if any sort of ruffians come about, or if a fox gets after the hens, they make a racket that would wake the dead." 

"Aye." Sam passes over the hoe. "Nothing better than a goose to give alarm, not when there's summat strange about." 

"Aye, and so ours have always done, so Dad don't think aught of it. But Mam gets in mind to have an eye out, and she combs the ground that night before she comes in for a sleep. Sure enough-- there's tracks where there oughtn't be any in the morning, even with the geese and the dogs quiet and all. 

"So Jolly says he reckons that means whoever's come poking about must not be no stranger, and ye can bet Dad looks pretty hard at Rosie when he says that, what with her getting to be of the age and all, Sam. But Mam says it ain't no suitor of Rosie's, for anybody with eyes knows she's set her cap for ye and wouldn't let nobody else come sneaking about-- and that ye wouldn't do it, nohow." 

Sam nods gravely, pleased by the trust, and Tom tosses him a wink. 

"And Mam adds to it, saying even if somebody Rosie didn't want come about, he wouldn't go to the byre; he'd come up to her window. And that it's for certain that if it was someone other than that Sam Gamgee and she wanted him there, she'd not go telling about the tracks the next day, like. 

"So my dad, he thinks mayhap some busybody in the neighborhood can't rest, and is making free to put his nose in our business late of a night. The Moon is on the wane and pretty soon there won't be no light to see what's about, so he makes up his mind to sit up that very night and see if he can't catch the prowler and teach him a lesson. 

"He gets a good stout cudgel and calls me and Jolly not to go to our beds, but to stay up and sit with him-- him with the cudgel and me with the chopping axe, and Jolly with a pitch-fork, all laying in wait out by the hay-stack. "Don't go making yourselves known till I shout, lads," he warns us. "For mayhap it's trouble too big for the three of us, or summat better left alone, like." 

Sam nods wry agreement; there ain't usually big trouble in the Shire, where everybody knows everybody else and most folk is related, but sometimes you can't always take notice when there's trouble about. For instance, if it were that Lotho Sackville Baggins up for a midnight stroll, looking in to the byre, it wouldn't do no good for Farmer Cotton to say aught, not even if summat went missing-- mayhap not even if it was found in Lotho's own hands the next day. 

"Anyhow, we set up in the hay-stack, all tucked against the barn in the shadow of the hay where nobody is likely to see. And just as it's getting about an hour past middle-night, with the Moon just about overhead and the chill starting to close in now that the dew's settled, Dad goes "Hsst!" and we all lay low and look, and pretty soon a shadow stirs in the barn-yard. It's a hobbit, and as he steps out to go across towards the byre, I can see his face, and it's that Rollo Banks, him with the mam as was a Bolger from Staddle." 

Tom pauses to have a look at Sam, and nods firm, though Sam doesn't offer no doubts. "It was that Rollo Banks, sure as I'm standing here-- for he's got a nose on him that makes two of mine, if not three, and there ain't no mistaking that, neither in the Sun nor in the Moon. Ye know Rollo, don't you Sam? He comes in the Ivy Bush some nights for an ale. He visits us now and again to try to woo our Rosie, and his mam sends him over twice every week for milk and butter, so I reckon the animals know him well enough, and they don't let on he's in the world. 

"Now, I'm all for jumping out and giving him what-for, but Dad stays still and shushes the two of us and we let him keep coming. That Rollo's the next best thing to gentry, and I reckon Dad wanted to be sure he was up to no good before stopping him. So what does he do but go over and open up the gate and let himself in to the sheep-fold!" 

Sam gives a startled chuckle in spite of himself, glancing over towards Mr. Frodo, whose head is tilted, intent, book forgotten on his lap. Then he shoots a look towards Tom, whose grin is near as wide as his face as he watches Sam's reaction. 

"I says to myself the exact same thing ye're thinking. 'Tom Cotton, that Banks lad ain't got a chance with our Rosie, so he's come for a bit of sheep-worrying, or I'm a rabbit.' And I reckon Dad is thinking the same, because he reaches over and gets the pitchfork away from Jolly and motions us to stay back while he creeps out." Tom leans forward, the hoe in his hand forgotten, savouring the point of his story. 

"The ewes are all bunched up the way they do at the back of the fold when somebody comes nigh them, bleating a bit here and there but not making much fuss, which tells me they're plenty used to Rollo and his ways. Sure enough, he cuts a ewe out of the herd-- don't laugh so, Sam! I ain't to the good bit yet-- and drops his breeks to his knees right there, thinkin' she ain't about to tell naught of her secret shame, and he gets busy with the job at hand. And my dad, he goes creeping around forwards, keeping his shadow under his feet so Rollo don't see him coming." 

Sam covers his mouth to keep from chortling; Mr. Frodo's shoulders are twitching suspiciously, and that does Sam's heart more good than a dozen stories of Tom's all together. 

"About the time Dad's got where he wants to be, Rollo's too busy to notice much anyhow, for all that the sheep ain't much impressed. She twitches her tail and he says summat I won't repeat, and grabs her tail with one hand and her wool with the other, meaning to hold her steady, like. About then Dad draws back the pitchfork, and for a second I think he's going to let Rollo have the tines right up his arse, but he changes his mind and turns it in his hand to give him a good solid thump with the handle." 

That does it; Sam can hear Mr. Frodo's choked snort, and he gives up a belly laugh of his own to cover it, clutching at the window sill and putting down the shovel he's holding before he cuts himself on its blade. Tom cackles like a banty rooster, pointing at Sam with one finger and wiping at his eyes with the other, waving him to silence. 

"Now hold up and listen, Sam, I ain't done! That poor ewe's got a bit of spirit, and she don't like Rollo hanging on to her tail and fiddling with her arse half the night. So she gives a little bleat and sets her trotters and she lets fly a turd and adds a piss for good measure, and it goes all over Rollo's front and falls right in his breeks-- just as Dad wallops him hard across the arse with that good stout wooden handle! 

"I ain't never heard a hobbit yelp so in my life; Rollo jumps nigh a dozen ells in the air and near squashes the poor ewe to death when he comes back down, but he hits the ground runnin', no matter that his cock's flopping every which way and his breeks are tangled about his legs. With them in his way he can't go nowhere nohow, so he falls flat on his face in the stable-muck. The ewe goes bounding back over to the flock; she ain't hurt, seemingly. Dad says he didn't know whether to sit down and laugh or lay about walloping Rollo again with the pitch-fork. 

Anyhow, by the time Rollo's got himself sorted out and flees away over the fence, he's left his best pair of velvet breeks behind in exchange for the wallop and the muck he took with him." 

Sam plops down on the tool bench and laughs until he cries, wiping his eyes with his sleeve; Tom's eyes sparkle at him and he grins even wider, if he can, waiting for Sam to get hold of himself before he goes on with his telling. 

"And so the next day, my Mam's in the market and who comes along but Mrs. Foxglove Bolger-Banks, talking to your very sister, Sam, talking to Daisy about why them breeks ain't in Rollo's closet since Daisy does the laundry for the Bankses and all. And Daisy don't know, but she says she didn't wash 'em last week, so it ain't her fault they've gone. 

"Well, before aught can get hot between the two, that Mrs. Banks sees old Gammer Twofoot, who does the dosing for them as lives up Staddle way. So she's got to be off, she says, for her lad's got the fidgets, and he ain't acting right. He's lying abed half the morning most days and this very morning he wouldn't sit down to breakfast. The last thing mam hears is how Mrs. Banks has it in her mind to give him a dose of the salts and clear him out proper, all to make him right again!" 

Now Tom can hear Mr. Frodo's laughter coming in through the window, helpless giggles that soar over Sam's deeper chuckling and make Tom's eyes fly open wide. 

"Oh, save us, I've gone and run off my big mouth in front of-- Samwise Gamgee, ye dratted sneak, putting down that window so's I'd be heard, I ought to--!" Tom sputters in a frantic hiss, and Sam guffaws, feeling it all the way down to his toes. He peeks out of the corner of his eye, and he can see a genuine wide smile glowing on Mr. Frodo's face as he sits looking towards the window. His eyes are alive with warmth and good cheer as they meet Sam's across the sill. 

Sam takes a slow breath, locked to those eyes for a long moment, and reckons that mayhap he should have tried some of his own poor tales after all, if this is what it takes to have a smile out of Mr. Frodo. But Tom is still grumbling, and Sam must finally look away and set him to rights. He puts the window down gentle-like and gets about it-- but not before he sees Mr. Frodo reaching for the plate of biscuits, taking one up and chewing with good appetite, the curl of a smile still lingering on his lips. 

"Never you let that trouble you," Sam finally soothes Tom, who is still grumbling under his breath, face red as a sunset. "Himself don't mind it." 

"If you say so." Tom shakes his head and reaches for the grease-pot, his ill-humour all but forgotten now that the window is shut. 

"Aye, and I'll say this as well," Sam grins, taking up the whetstone. "You'd best mind the sheep come lambing, for now we know why every one of them Bankses has more wool on his toes than half of Hobbiton put together!"


	68. An Autumn Ramble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam work at getting to know one another again as they take a pleasant stroll.

The rain and the damp lasts longer than Sam would have expected, and the end of Winterfilth has drawn nigh before he and Frodo can set out on their trek to Nobottle and the Bindbole Wood. They set forth the third day after the rains stop, that being the first day Sam judges the ground is dry enough to make for pleasant walking. The Sun seems determined to cooperate, rising to send forth a mellow, drowsy warmth more reminiscent of early Halimath, and the soft breeze promises to make even the shadows of the trees pleasant as the day waxes. 

Sam hitches his pack up and follows his master down the Hill, the two of them having decided to breakfast at the inn rather than wait for Sam to cook and clean up after. They have gotten an early start, though Mr. Frodo ain't used to getting up at the crack of dawn every day like the Gamgees. Sam knows, judging by the angle of the Sun on the horizon, that his Gaffer will be out tending the garden. 

Sure enough, when they draw near Sam can hear his Gaffer's clippers making a methodical, rhythmic snick snick snick as he prunes back the spent bean vines and puts them in a barrow for Marigold to pick over. 

"Good morning, Master Hamfast," Frodo says, calm and determined, inclining his head politely as the Gaffer looks up from his work. "Have you begun lifting your potatoes yet this autumn?" He looks at the rows, where the tops are turning yellow and starting to wither. 

"No more'n the family needs, Mr. Baggins." The Gaffer's words are polite, but short and to the point, and his look at Frodo is more cautious than friendly. "I reckon the ground won't freeze for another month or more." His eyes flick aside to Sam, then back to Frodo, quick as lightning. 

"Whenever you need Sam to help dig them, just send Marigold up to the smial," Frodo offers pleasantly. "I know he'll be glad to lend a hand." The words plainly give permission to ask Sam for help with more than just the potatoes, and in the Gaffer's deepening frown, Sam sees that his dad knows it, and he knows it chafes his father's pride as much as it eases his mind. 

The old hobbit makes a polite grunt and touches his cap as he nods his head, clearly holding his tongue so as to accept with proper grace. Accepting the gesture as his due, Frodo nods in return. "Good day, Master Hamfast." He looks aside at Sam, his back straight and proud. "Let's be off, Sam. We've miles to go yet." 

"Aye, sir," Sam says, feeling some of Frodo's pride putting starch in his own spine, which has wilted a bit under the Gaffer's disapproving glance. "Good morning, dad." He sets out resolutely after Frodo, feeling the Gaffer's eyes boring holes in his back, and he's glad when a curve in the Road takes them around the crest of the ridge. 

Frodo steps a bit closer to Sam when they do, and he puts his hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezes reassurance. "He'll get used to it," he says softly. "He'll learn he hasn't lost you. Let me know whenever you want to go to them; they're your family and you need each other." Frodo's eyes are soft but melancholy, and even as his heart swells with gratitude, Sam feels a wave of sympathy for his master, who's lost all of his closest kin now, even Bilbo. 

"You're part of my family too," he says on impulse. "And we need each other just as much, or more so, I'll warrant." 

Frodo's eyes warm and a smile touches his lips, turning up the tender corners of his mouth in a way that makes Sam ache to kiss him. But they're in the middle of Bagshot Row on a bright autumn morning, so he hesitates. While he does, Frodo's hand slides down from his shoulder along his arm and his fingers lace with Sam's, holding them for a long moment in a good firm squeeze. Their eyes stay locked as they stand quietly together, until the rattle of a cart pulling up the Hill warns them to move to the verge. 

They walk onward towards Hobbiton, and soon find themselves at the inn in Bywater. It isn't Highday, so the marketplace is largely deserted. A few of the shopkeepers and travelers are breakfasting inside the Dragon, so it isn't deserted when Frodo and Sam go inside. However, once they show their faces the comfortable buzz of chatter ebbs as though the place were empty. Sam hasn't seen such a reaction since the morning after he and Jolly had their brawl with Ted and his lads, and that's a fact. 

Sam almost wishes they hadn't come, but it's got to be faced sometime, and today is as good as any. Mr. Frodo keeps moving gracefully towards a table and Sam follows in his wake, deferential and proper, but keenly aware of every eye fixed on them. A few whispers rise like a breeze in dry grass, fleeting and quickly hushed. 

The kitchen maid comes out from her perch, properly polite, but her eyes are keen, and rather more curious than Sam likes; he holds his master's pack and lets Mr. Frodo sit, then takes care to arrange his baggage before taking his own place. By the time he does, Frodo has ordered for them both, a simple breakfast of bacon and eggs and fruit, toast with jam, and fresh milk. 

"We're a nine-days' wonder, ain't we?" Sam asks softly, and Frodo chuckles wry-like, but before he can speak, the door comes squeaking open and he is distracted by the thump of a wooden walking stick on the boards. 

Sam squints against the light. "Why, it's old Mother Woodbine," he says, soft as may be, and it is. She lives off below Bywater, where the land gets marshy and the willow thickets grow. Sam knows she don't stir out from her little hole often except to go gleaning what she can find from her little patch of garden, or to set fish traps in the stream, and she almost never shows her face in Hobbiton. 

Children's tales would have her a witch, boiling up all sorts of foul potions in a big iron pot out where the willows grow thickest. Some even say she's apt to catch and cook any meddlesome hobbit-children who happen to put their noses into her business, but Mr. Bilbo always scoffed at that and told Sam there wasn't aught to such foolishness but lies. 

"Let her be! She's a poor old hobbit who lost her husband to sickness long ago, and she has precious little way to make her living. She doesn't need half the lads in Hobbiton poking about her doorstep or spreading fool talk about witchery," Mr. Bilbo had said, and scowled for once, his brows drawing together as a thunderous expression spread across his face. "It's my land and I know she's there, and it suits me to leave her where she is. That's all you lads need to know, Samwise!" 

And mayhap it was, but Sam's sharp eyes had kept alert after that, and he knew Mr. Bilbo saw to it that a bit of this and that made its way out to her meager hole fairly often-- firewood or flour, a bit of butter or milk, and a time or two even a few live chickens. After he saw that, Sam took her a posy and a few spare biscuits once and left them for her, but he didn't know if she ever found them, and he was shy to go back. He wonders suddenly if Frodo has had a thought for her since Bilbo left, and worries that she may find thin times this coming winter. 

She squints about the room, leaning heavily on her stick, and her eyes fall on Frodo, and then on Sam. "Ahhaha," she cackles, her voice rusty with disuse as she lets her parcels slide down her arm to the floor, and leans them against the wall. "Now there's a fine pair to have the lasses pining from here to the Tooklands! Not a girl's heart left whole from hither to yon between the two o' ye, what with every lass wantin' either a strong back or a fine hole, and neither of 'em for the havin'!" 

Frodo smiles, unperturbed. "Come sit down, Mother; we've ordered bacon enough for three." His chair scrapes as he pushes to one side, leaving room for her, and she sallies across the floor to take the seat. 

Sam is too polite to let his nose wrinkle at the scent of smoke, tallow, and lye that rises off her rough homespun skirts, but it tells him right off that her cauldrons and kettles don't hold impertinent, curious children-- they're used for boiling soap, as any fool with sense could have reckoned in the first place. 

Sam wonders of a sudden if Mother Woodbine's kettles are where old Widow Rumble gets the soap she sells at the market, and just as soon as he wonders, he knows he's hit on the truth of it. Mr. Bilbo always bought that soap himself, and at a fair price, too, though he could get it cheaper elsewhere. Many was the time he made mathoms of it to his friends and connexions, what's more. Sam has often thought Mr. Bilbo might be making a bit of an unwelcome point, giving away soap like that, but now he understands the point runs even deeper than he'd thought before, and his admiration for his old master deepens. 

"It's a good thing for Hobbiton that 'ee stayed on when old Mr. Bilbo left, I'm thinking." Her voice carries as she sits, arranging her frock as though it were a fine lady's skirts. "Trained 'ee up proper he did, if I may make so bold, for all that there are those who'd name 'ee one of the river folk." 

Frodo smiles at her, and Sam can tell he is amused rather than offended by her frank words. "I would not care to disappoint," he bows his head, polite. Sam is momentarily taken aback by the courtliness of his manner, but he shakes his head. Mr. Frodo is always as courteous as the occasion calls for; it's just that Sam has misjudged this one, seemingly. 

"Aye, well, seeing as how 'ee loved old Mad Baggins so (meaning no disrespect by it, mind, for it's how he spoke of himself to me many a time), it's a shame 'ee had to stay behind him." Her voice falls a bit, and her eyes flick to Frodo, sharp as anything. Sam starts a little and shifts his feet; nobody gives old Mr. Bilbo such a name in front of Mr. Frodo or his kin, and it makes him squirm to hear it, stifling a rebuke. 

"I'd have thought 'ee wouldn't linger behind, once he set out again." She looks thoughtful, folding her hands in her lap like a proper lady for all her impertinence. But what makes it even worse, she's voiced a poser Sam somehow hasn't considered proper before, and that's a fact. Why did Mr. Frodo stay on? Sam can't rightly say. 

"But 'ee did, for such reasons as are anybody's guess, and I'm proper grateful." She pauses as the breakfast arrives, the maid correctly anticipating Frodo's request of a third plate for Mother Woodbine. Or mayhap she overheard. 

Frodo makes no difference of it and starts right in eating, lifting fork and glass as calm as may be. Sam picks up his fork, though he's all of a dither and there's a taste like ashes in his mouth. Somebody had to stay, sure enough, didn't they? Somebody was needed to keep the Sackville-Bagginses out from under Hill. And it was plain enough, for those with eyes to see, that Mr. Bilbo had spent years planning for Mr. Frodo to be his heir. But when it come down to it... did Mr. Frodo want to stay, or go? And did Mr. Bilbo give Mr. Frodo a choice of coming along when he went so sudden-like? 

"Eat, Sam, before it gets cold," Frodo murmurs, eyes gentle and knowing. Sam does, even though it sticks hard in his throat. He is silent, letting Mother Woodbine's chatter run past his ears, still not easy in his heart. Tales of the doings of the poor hobbits, the ones much worse off than Sam and his family with their situation as tenants on Bagshot Row, normally make his heart fill with pity, but today he's only got a mind for his own worries. 

Mr. Frodo is here to care for them, one and all, as he is here to care for Sam. 

But does he want to be? 

"And seeing how I won't always be able stir the soap proper, what with my joints getting so they bother me in the cold weather, I thought I'd have me a girl come prentice. I heard tell last Highday of an orphan lass over Hardbottle way, a child with a harelip, who ain't got a soul to help her, and no prospects to speak of. She's on the farthing's hands, as they say, and I've a mind to have one of the Shirriffs carry off a message to fetch her back, if she'll come. If it please 'ee, of course, Mr. Frodo." 

"Of course it does." Frodo pours her another mug of milk from the pitcher at his elbow and pushes it across the table. "You make far and away the best soap in the west farthing, Mother Woodbine. If you stopped, what else would I give my cousins and my aunts, and all of Bilbo's, on my birthday and for Yule gifting? By all means, find a likely lass and teach her your trade. And Sam here will keep an eye out and drop a word to lads who might be suitable to come courting, won't you, Sam?" 

Sam swallows hastily. "Sure enough, Mr. Frodo. Though not too many lads will court a lass with a harelip, begging your pardon. Still, there's those as doesn't mind it and look to the heart within." 

Frodo's smile at him melts with sweetness that fills Sam's heart to overflowing, and he finds the rest of his breakfast goes down easier. He knows of a Cotton cousin, a bit slow of wit and born with his foot clubbed, who's right as rain otherwise: a kind and simple soul, and a hard worker in the stables over at the Crossings. He might be just the lad. Sam decides to put in a word, as he promised. 

At last the plates are clean and the pitcher empty, and when Frodo pushes back his chair, both Sam and Mother Woodbine follow. Sam watches her limp towards the door, her spine straight and her head held high in spite of it all. Mr. Frodo's given her a bit of pride this morning, sure as the Sun rises, and it looks enough for her to be going on with. Sam tilts his head to shade his eyes from the sunlight as he passes the window. He reckons she got left to herself, and that ain't always something you can prevent or change. You've got precious little choice when it happens but to make the best of it-- just like Mother Woodbine. Just like Mr. Frodo is. Just like Jolly has. 

Mother Woodbine picks up her parcels at the door-- a disturbing mix of fragrant herbs and far less pleasant things, like meat fat for rendering tallow-- and they walk her across the fields as a courtesy. Sam holds her elbow to steady her as they duck under the mill race. Their paths lie together until just a ways past the edge of town, where the Water trails off into a dozen little channels, and the ground grows tussocks of wiry grass amidst the willows. The Road passes under the eaves of the willow trees before it winds off north and east towards Bindbole, and the cart tracks are deep and damp in it. No amount of gravel can keep the cart wheels from cutting ruts in the Road during wet weather. 

Sam didn't like to come this far from town when he was a little lad; back then the shade under the willows seemed dim and dreary, not full of dancing gold like it is today. It used to be the outermost boundary of his little world; beyond this place, the Shire might as well have been the wilderlands. But Mr. Frodo has changed that, and now Sam sees more than he used. 

"Thank 'ee, Mr. Frodo, and I'll send word how the lass works out." Mother Woodbine drops him a faint and creaking curtsey and sets off towards the marsh by herself. 

The Sun's light catches in the golden leaves that still cling to their boughs and gilds the leaves skittering together in the soft breeze or letting go to tumble through the air and blow into soft drifts on the ground as Sam and Frodo watch Mother Woodbine scramble down the hill to the marsh and disappear amidst the willows. She's just a plain old hobbit, the same as anybody. 

"A fine morning for walking, and the Sun hasn't risen more than her own height over the horizon," Sam murmurs, still feeling oddly bashful, drawing abreast of Frodo. "I've got apples in my pocket if you'd be wanting any." 

"A little later." Frodo smiles at Sam, stretching his shoulders to ease his pack. "With luck, we should make Needlehole by midafternoon." 

"Earlier if we catch a cart." 

"Not yet, I think. There's no need for hurry." Frodo squares his shoulders and begins to pick his way down the steep bank towards the Road. 

"True enough. I've got plenty of gear with me in case we don't make it to an inn before nightfall." Sam hitches his own pack higher and looks for a footing of his own. In truth, he has brought rather more than they need for a one-night trip, but at this time of year it's best to be ready for the unexpected. 

"I thought that pack looked heavier than it ought." Frodo chuckles ruefully. "Sam, you didn't have to bring Bag End along with us." 

"It's just a few odds and ends." Sam feels his cheeks heating, more for thinking why he chose to bring what he has in his pack than aught else; he decided to pack the blankets and extra food hoping they wouldn't be off to separate rooms in an inn at all. 

"Anything and everything we might need to pass a week in perfect comfort, I expect." Frodo's look warms; already he looks brighter, like the fresh air and light is doing him good. "I've no idea what I'd do without you, Sam." 

Sam blushes harder, remembering what Mr. Pippin said Frodo told the Mayor and thinking of what was said over the breakfast table this very morning. "Would you really," he hesitates, already wishing he hadn't begun. "Leave Bag End and all, and take me off to Buckland, like Mr. Pippin said?" 

"I would have, if I had to and you agreed to go with me. And I still would, if it came to that." Frodo's face grows stern, his eyes intent, and he seems to see the question Sam didn't quite dare ask. "Bag End is a wonderful place, Sam, and full of good memories, but it's only a smial. I'd give it all if I could have Bilbo back, and without you--" his eyes cloud, and he looks aside. "I'd have thought seriously of going along with Bilbo, I suppose." 

Sam stares at him, staggered. If? "Me? Mr. Frodo, you...?" words fail him; all of his master's grieving, Mr. Frodo giving up Mr. Bilbo, all on his account? If that was so, it's no wonder Mr. Bilbo's mouth always seemed to turn just a bit sour when he looked at the two of them together. 

Frodo looks up at Sam and smiles again, almost apologetic. "None of that, Sam. My choice is made and is not regretted. And as Mother Woodbine would remind us both, Hobbiton needs me." He puts his feet on the path and sets out with determination, already humming a walking song, his walking stick marking the measure. 

Sam falls in behind, matching his pace with ease, his heart full near to bursting. Should a time ever come when Hobbiton don't need Mr. Frodo no more, or Mr. Frodo decides on his own to leave it, there is naught that Sam would ever do but follow.


	69. Friends and Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam encounter the Ropers' show.

Sam uses his walking stick to push a tough, spiny branch of furze out of his path, puffing a bit and watching Mr. Frodo work his way towards the crest of a little wooded rise. The thick, rough-barked trunks of fir trees rise about his master, lower branches bare, the ground under his feet a bed of dry pine straw, but Sam is still working his way up through the tangle of gorse-bushes that cluster near the muddy bed of the little stream they have just crossed. He is hot and impatient with the prickles, and a bit of sweat gathers at his collar as he labors to get himself through the thicket with his skin in one piece.

His pack is heavier than Mr. Frodo's, and the extra weight tells on him when they climb, or when they have to pick their way through tight spots. They've done a fair bit of that ever since they set off across-country to cut off a wide looping arm of the Road, the sooner to reach Nobottle.

Mr. Frodo is still now, waiting for Sam, his stick in his hand as he looks down towards the valley beyond. Sam doesn't know what it holds; he hasn't ever been so far from home before, and every ridge and rise holds a new horizon. Seed pods pop open and scatter their contents as Sam pushes through the thicket, the furry seeds sticking to his breeches and his jacket, and he bats at them ineffectually, then gives up. Mr. Frodo's soft laughter tumbles down the hill towards him, gentle but heartfelt, and it makes the prickles and the discomfort of the straps of his pack worthwhile.

Sam finally eases his way out of the thicket and manages to climb the hill, pine straw slippery under his feet, picking off seeds and dropping them as he comes.

"Next time you'll wade, won't you, Sam?"

"Not in water that deep, I won't!" Sam vows stoutly. "Your breeches are soaked halfway to the hip!"

"They'll dry." Mr. Frodo brushes off his concern. "We're almost to Nobottle, Sam. Look!"

They gaze out across the landscape, where the wood thins as it marches down into a series of gentle rolling hummocks crowned with stubble. The little township is visible on the horizon as a smudge of haze from the rising smoke of cookfires and the dust thrown up by cart-wheels. Pockets of trees lie about the dells and hollows of the land, nestling close about farmers' smials and byres. On the very horizon Sam can see the slopes and vales of the Bindbole Wood, its boughs still bright with autumn leaves.

But Frodo is not pointing towards Bindbole; his finger indicates a place rather nearer than the horizon, where the Road climbs over a saddle of land and down into a dell. Colored flags flutter at the edge of a copse of trees that climbs the far wall of the dell, and ponies or cattle or some other large beasts are grazing, indistinct in the distance. They raise dust from the grass. Sam blinks; the spectacle is a familiar one.

"The Ropers?" Frodo asks.

"Aye," Sam says slowly. "It looks like the show, and the season's right for rope-selling. They're set up bit far from town for my uncle Andy's taste, but Nobottle's got a few ladies as don't care much for Mallow." And a few lads who care quite a bit for Anson, though Sam doesn't like to say it.

"I daresay." Frodo's voice is dry. "Shall we go down, Sam?"

Sam hesitates, a bit uncomfortable and still thinking in particular of Anson, who never made a secret of his interest in Sam. That might raise Frodo's hackles a bit, but Sam can't be sure. "Well, mayhap we might...."

Frodo chuckles, fixing Sam with a knowing glance. "I won't let them make you join the show."

Sam smiles at him, color heating his cheeks a bit. "I'd be right grateful if you didn't, Mr. Frodo."

"I wouldn't mind seeing the act again," Frodo admits. "I was rather too upset to appreciate it last time."

Sam flushes and nods. What Frodo wants, Sam will see him have, so he makes no more protest.

They start out, winding their way around tussocks and stones, picking a path that will funnel them down in to the little hollow where the Ropers await. Heavy grass still grows about the sluggish, shallow brook that trickles down between the chalky ridges, and the ground is soft. In places, the earth has been churned to mud by the workers who cut the hay, perhaps only a week before. Sam can still see the marks of their feet, undisturbed by wind and weather, water gathered in the prints of heel and toe.

Frodo picks his way among them easily, finding patches of solid ground where he may. Sam follows in his wake, letting his feet press where his master's have trodden. The coarse marsh-grass growing on the verge of the brook hisses, and its long fronds sting his legs as the breeze picks up.

"It will be cold tonight," Frodo looks up at the clear blue sky. "If the wind dies, it will frost, I think."

Sam judges he is right; the scattered clouds that lingered in the sky at dawn have blown away, and the air has a clear, crisp tang that he can taste on his tongue. He sighs. At the edge of his mind, half-buried in shyness and lingering shame, he had hoped to sleep close with Frodo under the stars, and perhaps.... perhaps more. But there's no use crying over spilt milk, and the knowledge that Frodo is safe and warm in a clean bed will be a comfort of sorts while he lies alone in the loft of a stable with the other servants. "We'll want to find a proper shelter for the night," he says, reluctant.

Frodo makes a neutral sound. Sam's heart flutters, his belly turning a pleasant cart-wheel inside him as he wonders if Frodo's thoughts were anything like his own. He dares to step up and dart a sideways glance at Frodo, whose eyes are thoughtful, mirroring the sky.

They come about the foot of a ridge and follow the twists and turns of the little brook down through the fields towards the grove of trees that bear the fluttering flags of the Ropers' show, which Sam can now see clearly. Mallow, wearing a bright yellow coat and breeches, is putting Spark through his paces, trotting circles around a clearing under the beech trees. The farmer's dogs are so distracted by the commotion and the unusual visitors that Frodo and Sam make it all the way into the farmyard without being noticed.

Sam has never seen so many ropes strung for a show-- one hanging from a tall tree, six others stretched between them. There's even a hoop standing off to one side, which Sam hasn't seen the likes of before. It looks to be some sort of metal wrapped in rags, and the pole that holds it is set off to one side, with a crook in the length of it. Sam judges a pony could trot under the thing without backing its ears, and reckons Mallow must mean to jump through it.

Anson is busy stretching the main walking-rope, a thick prickly hawse that's too much for him to handle on his own, so Sam simply goes up behind him and hauls on the tough strands, giving him the slack he needs to set a good, tight knot. Anson quickly pulls the hitch tight.

"Thank you, there-- Sam!" Anson's eyes go wide as he turns about at last and sees who is helping him. "You've grown up a treat, lad, and that's a fact." His eyes slide along Sam's chest, going wide and dark. He steps right up, clapping Sam's back cordially, and Sam doesn't miss that his hand lingers and slides around to the shoulder, testing the feel of Sam's muscles. "You've grown as much through the shoulder as you have through the waist, Sam! What are you doing, so far from Hobbiton and that pretty master of--"

Sam coughs hastily, and Frodo steps forward, eyes twinkling, but his voice calm and polite. "Anson Roper?" He extends his right hand, pleasant and friendly-like, but his left rests possessively on Sam.

"An, this is Mr. Frodo Baggins," Sam says gravely. "Mr. Frodo, this lad is my cousin Anson Roper, as you've already reckoned."

Anson extends his hard-callused palm and shakes Frodo's hand. The two eye one another with frank interest and more than a flicker of challenge, which makes Sam fair twitch. Anson's knuckles are pale, but Frodo never flinches from the tight grip, giving it right back until Anson loosens his grasp.

"A pleasure to meet ye, Mr. Baggins," Anson drawls calmly. "Congratulations to ye on your gardener here; my family's loss is your good fortune."

"Yes." Amazingly, Frodo's hand slides down Sam's back and comes to rest at the small of it. "He is." Frodo leans lightly against Sam's arm, his narrow body warm, and he pauses there, head tilted towards Sam's. He remains there for a long moment, simply looking at Anson. Sam swallows hard at the hot rush that surges through his belly at Frodo's touch. Anson's eyes narrow thoughtfully, and Sam would wager a pouch of good pipeweed that his cousin understood Mr. Frodo's message, even if Sam doesn't quite understand it proper himself.

A thumping of hooves announces Mallow's arrival and breaks the tension, and she flips down off Spark just as dainty as a snowflake, landing on her feet in the dust.

"Frodo Baggins, as I live and breathe." she speaks up, pert as you please. "It's a pleasure."

"I reckon you know M... Miss Mallow, too." Sam stumbles on her name; she has never claimed a surname in his presence, and he don't know how to introduce her proper without one.

"Yes, I do. The pleasure is mine, cousin." Frodo smiles at her, sincere and genuine.

Sam's eyes near pop out of his head.

"Don't start cousining me in polite company, now, or Eglantine will gossip until the family disowns you, too," Mallow tells Frodo dryly. "Put your tongue back in your mouth, Samwise, before it dries in the sun."

Sam hastily closes his teeth, colouring from hairline to fingertip. Anson has never batted a lash; plainly he already knew. Sam has half a mind to thrash him for never speaking up about the matter.

"I have always believed refusing to claim your own kin makes you look more foolish than otherwise," Frodo shrugs, a gesture more eloquent than words.

"You're a proper gentleman, you are," Mallow says, in a good broad country accent, and Sam is the only one who doesn't laugh. He pets Spark instead, trying to settle his confusion. The pony noses at his shirt, and he remembers that he has an apple in his pocket, so he gets it out and offers it up in the flat of his hand.

Spark nips it up, crunching contentedly.

"Come along, Mr. Frodo." Mallow has fallen into her role comfortably. "It's only proper you should meet Farmer Tilley and his wife right away."

She leads Frodo off towards the snug little farmhouse, a low wood building that Sam judges is bound to burrow in to the chalky ridge that rises from the land beyond the byre. Sam and Anson watch them go.

"That master of yours could spit a coney on them eyes of his, and roast it too, if he had a mind," Anson comments lazily after they vanish into the house end of the smial. "Heave on that rope there for me, Sam."

Sam squirms, not sure how he should answer, and takes the rope. "You never told me Mallow was a Took."

"She ain't quite; not no more." Anson grunts, nearly catching his finger in the rough rope as he pulls on a knot. "Not since that Mistress Pearl Took (her being Master Peregrin Took's sister, and him being your Mr. Frodo's friend) up and dumped old Lalia the Fat out of her chair and made an end of her-- that Lalia was Mallow's mother's sister, seemingly, for all Mallow's thin as a rail.

"Anyhow, that set the Tooks to scuttling about like ants in the ashes, says Mallow. Then seeing as Thain Ferumbras ain't never got no heir yet, it sets 'em all of a pother wondering who'll be next, and Mallow's name come up in the talking-- they reckoned she ought to be married off to young Master Peregrin Took, Paladin's son, when he come of age. Of course, he was just a babe back then, and her not of age, but there was those as said it would settle the question for once and all. Not that Mallow wanted to be The Took's wife in the first place, for she likes livin' as she does, but that gave the rest of 'em reason to cut her off, so she couldn't never make trouble."

Sam shakes his head in disbelief. "But An, she fancies you, plain as the nose on my face."

"And that Frodo Baggins fancies ye just as plain," Anson answers him back, placid but quick. "And by the looks of ye both, ye ain't done no more about it than I have about Mallow."

Sam bites his lip, flushing red all over again, and isn't sure what to say.

"Now, don't take on." Anson tugs on the rope they've set, testing it to see if it sags or if it bounces back. It don't bounce to suit him, so he and Sam haul on it again, and he works at the knot, his voice growing tight with the struggle of it. "Trouble with ye, Sam, is ye ain't forward enough. Ye're too shy for tumbling, and ye always were, more's the pity."

"I ain't," Sam flares back, but it's true. He judges he'd best change the direction of the conversation quick, if he can. "And why haven't you done aught about Mallow?"

"Aye, well, ye should know that." Anson's quick glance is rueful. "She ain't my sort, Sam." His eyes flicker up and down along Sam's sturdy body, making a point. They linger, more than a bit wistful, and Sam feels his ears burn.

"That's got it. Let's put Spark back up," Anson takes the pony's harness and leads him off towards the byre, breaking the awkward silence between them. Sam follows along and puts his pack in a corner, then gets a curry-comb from its shelf, glad do have something to do so he don't have to meet Anson's hot eyes. An's changed a good deal, or maybe it's Sam who has; in either case, An don't seem nearly so casual about his interest as he once was.

Sam curls his toes in the straw, uncomfortable with the thought, but he steps into the stall with his curry-comb nonetheless. They brush and curry Spark together, one on either side.

"What brings ye out this way anyhow, Samwise?"

"Mr. Frodo fancied a walking holiday," Sam nods towards his pack. "I came along to carry and do a bit of cooking for him."

"I'll warrant he brought ye along hoping ye'd get past bein' so backwards-like if he could get ye away from your Gaffer," Anson observes, then whistles softly between his teeth, soothing Spark a bit as he lifts the pony's hind fetlock. The pony is picking up on Sam's distress, and has begun shifting a bit, lifting his hooves with a nervous step and slide.

"He needed a holiday. He ain't been proper happy since Mr. Bilbo left," Sam evades Anson's eye. "How's Uncle Andy?" He tries again to change the subject.

"Well enough to bend your ear over yer bit of work, but poorly enough so as he didn't come out with us. His hands are right stove up sometimes from the rope-twisting, and they don't get no better when the summer goes." Anson clucks to Spark again. "Hup in there, Spark. Good lad." He curries Spark's front leg, then moves around to Sam's side to care for the other two while Sam holds the pony's bridle. "Sleeping rough don't agree with him no more." Anson tone of voice makes it seem that it does, however, agree with him, or it would if he had Sam with him.

Sam nods, sympathetic but trying to miss the flirtatious tone, and wishing to the heavens Andy Roper had come with his show to keep a lid on all this nonsense, the way he used to do when Sam stayed in Tighfield. "My own Gaffer's just the same," he manages to stammer.

"I reckon ye won't join the show, not if it means peeling yerself away from Mr. Frodo's side."

"I'd just as soon not," Sam admits. "Anyhow, I'm not in practice for all the jumping about and flipping and whatnot."

"Aye. It takes a bit of practice, it does. But ye could run the ponies. Still, Rob Tilley's a fine stout lad, and we've had him work 'em a time or two for the practice." Anson puts down Spark's feet and fumbles in his pocket for a pick. "Spark's got a bit of a stone in here; he ain't lame yet, but it won't do all the same. I'd best prise it out. Ye ain't got a knife, have ye, Sam?"

Sam hands his pocket-knife over, and Anson pries at the pebble. "Rob's Farmer Tilley's youngest, and just my sort of lad. He's right handy with his-- ho, Rob!" Anson greets the shadow that crosses the door.

Sam looks up, and blinks at Rob Tilley, who has a hand in height and breadth on Tom Cotton-- in particular at the shoulders, which makes him near the biggest hobbit Sam has ever seen. "Come prop this pony before he crushes me against the stall," An calls, and Rob comes over, easily bracing Spark's shoulder and pushing him away from Anson's head.

"This is m'cousin Samwise. Sam, Rob." Anson grunts, still prying at the stubborn pebble.

"Have a care with that knife; my Gaffer gave it to me on his birthday," Sam warns Anson. "Your da has a good bit o' land here," he looks to Rob. "Good grass, plenty of water, nice stout trees."

"Aye." Rob eyes Sam with interest. "Ye must be from down Hobbiton way?"

"Aye." Sam straightens his back; he hasn't often had doings with folk from so far north. "Though me Gaffer started out life in Tighfield. He come 'prentice to old Holman when he was just a lad, working Mr. Bilbo Baggins's garden, and that's where the family bides to this day."

Rob's eyes size him up near as frank as Anson's. "My mum and da will offer your master a bedroom of his own. Will you mind bunking in the loft with Anson?"

"An and I used to bunk down in worse places, when I spent a year roping," Sam says stoutly. "We always did all right."

"Did you now?" Rob's eyes are warm like new caramel, and his tongue touches his lip.

"Well, now, I didn't mean--" Sam stammers, and Anson chuckles.

"If you want to talk Samwise into joining our bit of gaming later, you'll have to talk a mite louder, Rob. He's a shy 'un, and his looks go elsewheres, if you follow."

Sam blushes fiercely at the frank talk, looking away from Rob. Time was when his cousin wouldn't mention such in front of him-- mayhap he has grown up, at that.

"I daresay they do." Rob chuckles, deep and throaty. "I don't mind looking at a bit of that Baggins lad myself. He's that toothsome, he is. Pretty as a lass."

Sam tries not to bristle, knowing he isn't succeeding. Anson's snicker doesn't help. "It ain't polite for you to talk so about my master," Sam says tightly, struggling to keep his anger out of his voice.

"There now, I ain't for stealing your master, nor talking out of place, neither." Rob puts both palms up, placating. "I oughtn't carry on so, not knowing you and all." He puts out one broad palm, friendly-like. "I'm sorry. Let's shake on it and be friends, Sam."

Sam does so, finding a sincere regret in Rob's eyes, though looking up at them fair gives him a crick in his neck. "All right," he says slowly. "I ain't one for fighting."

When the handshaking is done and Spark is left with a nice manger of oats and pail of water, the two lads go on to tackle Rob's chores, and Sam goes out into the yard, wanting a bit of space to be by himself for a bit. But that's just what he isn't getting, for Mallow is waiting outside next to the old mossy stone well, her face like a thundercloud.

"Those two louts have been after you, I see," she says flatly. "You look like you've been pulled backwards through a knothole, Sam."

Sam crimsons again, for the flick of her eye tells him what she's seen, and he sits down right hasty to hide it. The flagstone is cold and clammy under his bottom, and he hopes it will help distract his stubborn flesh. "I reckon they joke like most lads," he says lamely.

"And game more than is good for them," she snaps. Sam can see the genuine pain behind her words. "They'd game you if they could, and your master too, what's more."

"You know I ain't never gone gaming with Anson," Sam says low, finding the words hard to say to a lass. "And I ain't about to start, what's more."

"You lads and your gaming!" Her temper flares hot, and she gives him a considering look. "I'll wager you have a lass back home who has cause in plenty to rue the way you look at that master of yours, even if you don't have the stones to game him!"

Sam hasn't got a good answer to none of that, which is answer enough of itself, and she scoffs in her throat. "We ought to show them," her voice changes suddenly, soft and wheedling. "Show them a thing or two indeed, Samwise. Tonight."

Sam stares at her, alarmed, and gets up off his seat. "Now, Miss Mallow--"

"You haven't ever called me Miss before and you aren't starting now," a flicker of her sharp tongue comes through the sugar. "A bit of the green-eyed beast might be just the thing, Sam, to push a couple of stubborn cart-wheels out of the mud." She reaches out with one slim finger and flicks open the button at Sam's collar. He stares at her, feeling like a hare cornered by a fox. "You like the lasses, too; I've seen you looking. I've seen you looking at me." Her fingernail torments the next button, threatening to break the threads that hold it. "You like to see me in my breeches, Samwise Gamgee, and you'd like to see me out of them as well, wouldn't you?"

Sam's blood is rushing in his ears, making such a racket he can hardly hear, and once again, he can't deny she has him all of a lather for all that he don't want to lie with nobody but Frodo. "M-miss Mallow--"

"I'll meet you out by the haystack tonight if you like, Sam, and Frodo doesn't have to be any the wiser." She smiles, wicked and sweet; her chest is lifted and he notices the curves of her small breasts straining at her tight little vest. He swallows hard and wipes sweat off his face, trying to think how to let her down polite-like; her smile sinks deeper, almost triumphant.

"Think about it," she whispers, low and sultry. "Think about it hard." Her fingers trail down, brushing against him someplace nobody's touched since Jolly, not even Mr. Frodo, and Sam jerks away so hard he falls backwards off his perch.

She stands up, still smiling, and looks over him as he lies on the ground, then walks away deliberately, her hips rolling graceful like grass on the hills under a sunny breeze. Sam stares in spite of himself, then chokes back a curse and jerks his eyes away, listening to her laugh as she steps into the byre. She's mad as a hare, she is, without Andy to watch over her!

He's just picking himself up again when Frodo comes out with Farmer Tilley, who is of a size and also much of a look with his son, only with more grey in his hair and lines on his face.

"Are you all right, Sam?" Frodo blinks, dismayed.

Sam can't speak up and tell his mind, not with the farmer looking on, so he just touches his brow with a knuckle. "Yessir," he manages, knowing he looks a bit weak at the knees as he does so. Frodo gives him a slight frown, his eyes lingering, but when the farmer moves on, Sam knows his master has no choice but to follow.


	70. A Bawdy Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallow has a surprise for the good folk of Nobottle.

"It looks like the yard's most ready, Mr. Baggins," Farmer Tilley observes. "All but the lanterns and the table, mayhap. We'd best get to putting them out; evening won't wait, nor will them as is coming to buy rope. Where's that lazy lout of mine? Hey, Rob Tilley! Anson Roper!" He goes to rap on the barn. "The Sun's near on the ridge, and no lanterns up yet. Ain't you got the stock fed?"

"Be right out, da," Rob answers, and Anson's response is more indistinct, following his.

Sam helps his cousin and the farmer's lad drive stakes and hang lanterns, and then helps them haul wood to build a tall bonfire criss-cross in the middle of the clearing, where there's a spot between the trees that the sky shines through.

While they do it, Mr. Frodo tours the farm and spends a time talking to Mallow, who is just as cool and poised as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Sam has to keep himself from scowling at Rob, too; the burly lad's eyes follow Mr. Frodo's slim form a good deal more than Sam approves of.

By this time, folk from Nobottle are trickling on to the farm; Rob chains up the dogs and closes up all of the sheds and doors, excepting only the front of the byre. The chickens and most of the other fowls went in to roost when the sun went down, but the geese are still out and about. Sam helps the farmer's daughters drive them in and they latch up the coops. By this time, the ropes are set to hold back the crowd and the show is all but ready.

Mallow is to eat inside with the farmer's family and Frodo, but the lads will have a bite standing up behind the byre. Sam makes sure his master is accounted for before he sees to his own supper; he thinks he can see Frodo's eyes reach ruefully to touch him before his master steps inside the farm-smial, but there's naught to be done for it.

When he returns to the byre to have his own supper, Rob and Anson's voices bring him up short.

"Aye, it's a wonder the Gaffer let Sam come away from Hobbiton at all," Anson is saying, and Sam freezes, quiet as a mouse, still hidden inside the byre.

"A hard one, is he?"

"A hard one, and he don't hold with gaming." Anson's voice is muffled, but Sam can still hear it. "And apt to reward a lad with a clout more often than a kind word."

Sam bristles, fists closing; it ain't right of Anson to talk so of the Gaffer, who he hardly knows anyhow.

"Gaffer Gamgee has a reputation, he does, as a hard taskmaster," Anson's voice is muffled, but Sam can still hear. "He sent Sam off meaning he might come 'prentice to my Da some time back, trying to get him away from Mr. Frodo, and Sam was the stoutest lad I'd ever seen. Not a word of complaint no matter what Da told him off to do, and him no bigger than me, but with a shoulder stout enough to lift a pony like a blacksmith when it come time for shoeing."

"Fine shoulders on that lad." Rob's voice has a note of admiration that makes Sam shift his feet.

"I thought you didn't have an eye for him." Anson sounds a little cross.

"I've an eye for you," Rob answers easily. "And an eye isn't naught. It's what else you do that counts, if I may say, and you've got more than an eye for most lads you meet, so don't be giving me that frown."

"Mayhap that's right," An sounds more placid now. "But I do move about, what with the show and all, so it ain't like--"

"What are you doing, Sam?" Mallow's voice behind Sam makes him start, and he pops out of the byre like a cork out of a bottle.

"Naught but thinking," he says, which is close enough to the truth, if not in the gold.

"We saved back your bit, Sam," Anson says, giving him a wink. "And it may be you'll be wanting it, since listening behind doors is hungry work and all."

Sam colours. "I reckon it is, and I beg your pardon for it. Thank you." He accepts the linen napkin and the mug that's laid out for him-- there's cider in the mug, and inside the napkin lie sausages and a nice brown loaf. An and Rob have left Sam a tidy pat of butter on an earthenware plate, and there's a knife to spread it with. Sam maneuvers himself to a seat on the fence and starts to eat.

Mallow is still carrying a scone, licking at the butter on it, which has melted and trickled down between her fingers. The sight of her deft pink tongue makes Sam turn his gaze away, uncomfortable.

"These are fine," Mallow finishes her scone and gives a contented sigh.

"Aye," Sam says when Anson don't answer, and busies himself with the butter-knife.

Mallow doesn't look at Sam, her mouth pinched in a white line as she eyes Anson, who stares into his mug of cider with intent care.

"I've worked up a little something special for the show tonight," Mallow tells Sam as she turns her back on Anson and Rob both, her voice too light. "I think you'll like it, and I daresay we'll sell every ell of rope on the waggon."

"I reckon you know best, Miss Mallow," Sam answers her, carefully polite.

"Be sure to watch."

"I'll make a point of it." Sam fidgets and takes a sausage, tearing a bit off his crusty loaf to wrap it in.

When they've finished and licked their fingers, Rob carries the plate and the knife and mugs away, and Sam tries not to stand between Anson and Mallow, who is still sending Anson scowls when he is looking her way, and troubled glances when she thinks he ain't. She varies them with hot, melting looks at Sam just for good measure.

Sam fidgets, nervous, and after a moment of thought, he goes in to the byre to peer out through the cracks at the gathering crowd. He wishes he and Frodo hadn't never seen the flags fluttering to tell about the show, or that he'd been able to get Frodo's ear somehow and convince his master to find a reason and come away with him before evening fell. But now it's too late; a broad gibbous Moon is rising through the trees and the lanterns are all that holds the night at bay.

"Let's bind up some torches," An elbows Sam, so they sit down to work, dipping old rags in oil and tying them about the ends of long sticks. Mallow pulls on a set of slick leather gloves, fussing them just so, powdering them with a bit of chalk out of a bag she has tucked at her belt.

Finally Farmer Tilley taps on the door and they come out. He lights a spill at a lantern and touches it to the oil-soaked torch that Sam is carrying. He takes the torch and shoves it through the logs of the bonfire, turning it and thrusting until the pile of wood catches ablaze. The leaping light of the fire pushes back the shadows to the front of the crowd, which stands ranged about ropes awaiting the show. To one side, the farmer's wife and daughters sit at a wide, low table, all but hidden behind piles of bread and cheeses, late vegetables, crates of fresh eggs, bottles of fresh milk, and cloth-wrapped pats of new-churned butter. Cider and ale casks are piled nearby in a tidy heap.

"Good evening to you all," Farmer Tilley inclines his head to the crowd, remarkably self-possessed. "Enjoy the show, and remember there's all kinds of good things to be bought-- especially cider and ale, if you have a thirst." He steps back and Sam nods understanding; more than rope is to be sold at this gather, the true reason why the farmer has let the show come and set up on his land and stable its animals in his byre.

The show begins with Mallow's entry into the ring, one foot on Berry's back and one on Spark's, which makes the crowd gasp even though the ponies are only walking. Rob is helping Anson, and secretly Sam thinks he was a better match for Anson himself-- he and Anson are closer of a size and well-matched, like a team, but the difference between Rob and Anson draws eyes and words away from Mallow, butter-yellow coat and all.

Both the ponies are wearing blinders to keep them from starting or shying at the fire, and Sam would be minded of dwarves, except there's no song and the night is clear, so it don't close so tightly around the little farmyard.

The pale round faces of the hobbits turn as one to follow Mallow when she swings herself up daintily on to a rope. Her skills have grown since Sam left the Ropers, and he watches, as openmouthed as any of the folk from Nobottle, as she skips and leaps across the ropes, her lithe body flashing in the firelight-- she cartwheels all the way down a rope, fast as lightning, and then back again, and then jumps and flips between them. She moves like a cat, all grace and fire, and he wonders about the tales that the Tooks have fairy blood; it seems to him that she must, even more so than Mr. Frodo, if it's true.

The crowd gasps and moans as she leaps and bobs between a pair of ropes set close together.

Anson makes his best attempt at providing a version of Uncle Andy's chatter, throwing in loud calls that draw buyers' attention to the strength of the ropes, their spring, their resilience-- and their supreme value. Sam hardly hears it, watching Mallow's slim legs and trim ankles flashing; she is all but flying between two ropes of different heights as calm and easy as if she were a bird, jumping from one to the other and swinging roundabout.

Mallow pauses for breath after a bit, and Anson goes about the crowd, haggling and talking. A great knot of hobbits converge upon the farmer's goods, and kegs of cider and ale are tapped.

Sam notices as time passes that there aren't many hobbit children in the crowd-- the show began too late for that. There are fewer ladies present than Sam is used to seeing, too. As the second round of the show begins, there are even fewer; the ladies are dragging their children off, or they're heading off to Nobottle on their own laden with bottles of milk and parcels of cheese and butter and cabbages, egg crates balanced on their shoulders. Sam reckons there aren't a dozen lasses left, saving the farmer's kin.

Mallow has left off her leather gloves this time when she emerges from the byre; Anson and Rob go to meet her and lead the ponies in to the circle.

She has changed her butter-yellow garb for scarlet, and the silk breeches cling to her like a second skin. Sam gulps; her collar is open to her waist and her shirt is loose. A lad next to Sam nudges his elbow.

"Do ye see? That ain't no proper lady, that ain't!"

"Aye," Sam mumbles, for Mallow ain't.

"And ain't ye glad," an older lad on the other side pushes the younger, and he shuts his mouth. "Reckon that shirt won't hide much once she goes to leaping about."

The younger lad just sighs, and so does Sam, though with a bit more exasperation.

"For the next trick, we need a volunteer from the audience!" Anson calls. "Our lovely Mallow will choose the lad who helps her fly-- or lets her fall!"

Sam groans, trying to draw back, but the crowd is packed too tightly around him. Only it seems Mallow isn't looking in his direction; she has spotted--

Frodo. Sam gulps as she nudges Berry forward, her silk blouse rippling and causing a widespread, though presently unrewarded, craning of hobbit necks.

"Mr. Frodo Baggins of Hobbiton," Mallow identifies her mark, her voice clear and easily distinguished among the rumble.

Sam can hear Frodo laugh helplessly as he steps out. "I should have known, cousin," he says, just as clear. "What do you want me to do?"

The trick involves Mallow shimmying her way up a long rope hung from a stout branch, and Frodo standing at its end, turning it. Anson directs him with a low word or two and helps him get it started.

A moan goes up from the crowd, and Sam's eyes are drawn from Frodo to Mallow, who has one arm and a knee hooked about the rope. She waves to the hobbits as she rotates gently. Sam notes that her wrist is hooked firmly through a strap woven into the length of rope.

Her blouse flutters and another moan throbs through the lads and dads; Sam bites his lip, his cheeks stinging hot.

The rope turns faster; it looks easier for Frodo the quicker she goes, but it ain't easier to watch him turn nohow, for the crowd's excited gasps become a low rumble as the silk blouse blows back and forth. Sam bites his lip harder. For all that he's got sisters, he ain't never seen a lady's breast out of her frock before, leastways not unless it had a child to cover it. But Mallow's little pink nipples flash in the light, teasing-- half shadowed on one swing, quite bare the next. She stands straight out from the rope somehow, taut and straight as an arrow on the string, and he can almost hear her invitation, silky and sly with promise, to have him out by the haystack later.

If it weren't for him having waited near a lifetime for Frodo, Sam reckons he'd take her up on it; his cock is straining in his breeches-- and more than half the lads around him have the same trouble, judging by the way they squirm and shift their feet.

"How much rope will ye buy to have her out of that shirt, lads?" Anson calls.

"Enough for the shirt and the breeches too!" a wag shouts out. Mallow is moving, changing her hang upon the rope, getting her ankle through the strap and bending over graceful, her short pale hair catching the sinking flame of the fire, turning cherry red, her white skin gleaming at her throat. The shirt covers her again, plastering for a moment to the sweat on her ribs.

Anson goes about, passing out coils of rope and taking up coin; Mallow moves artfully and suddenly the shirt flutters from her waist, crackling like a flag in a stiff breeze and standing out behind her for a turn or two before it pulls free and wings away into the crowd. There is a short scuffle as lads struggle to see who will take it. Frodo keeps turning the rope and Sam can't see his face; he is looking up at his cousin, and Rob is standing nearby in case Frodo should fumble the rope.

The hobbits rumble with pleasure, and Sam bites his lip again; both her small breasts are pale and bare, nipples dark circles of pink that stand out in the firelight. Her eyes are closed, and the rope is caught between her thighs. Her ankle is set firm in the strap now, and she leans back farther and farther, back arching. In spite of himself, Sam pictures her riding like that astride his lap, and he tastes copper from his bitten lip.

"It ain't no wonder them Tooks disowned you," Sam hears himself murmur without planning to speak, faint against the turmoil. He thinks he understands a bit more now about Mallow, and the lengths she'll go to. "And I reckon you don't give no more mind to 'em than a cat to a cucumber."

She don't strip down no farther, fortunately, and by and by Anson comes over, pockets and pouches bulging with coin, to help Frodo slow the rope. Mallow slithers down at last and comes to rest with her legs around Frodo's waist and her arms around his head, her trim little breasts pressed against his face, laughing like a wild thing. Frodo sets her down and slaps her rump as she scampers over to the ponies; he smiles and shakes his head at her, then rejoins the crowd.

Sam don't know whether to be hot with lust or mad as a half-drownded cat. Mayhap both.

The last turn is the turn with the ponies, and she does it without no shirt on, riding a long slow half-dozen laps around before starting up proper, just so's the lads who've bought their ropes can have a bit of a look. She acts as proud and poised as a lady in her bath with nobody about, except she tips Sam a wink, and he shakes his head at her, not knowing what to do about her nohow. She goes around again, standing proud on Berry's back, her arms outstretched. Her high, tight little breasts bob in time with the pony's gait.

"Hussy ought to be horsewhipped, Took or no!" Sam hears an indignant female voice from near the back of the crowd, quickly hushed. He ain't altogether sure himself that something oughtn't to be done, though not that. And his cock? Well, it has its own notions in the matter, and they ain't proper in keeping with Sam's good sense nor his heart, neither.

Enough of this. Sam starts pushing his way through the crowd, ignoring the irritation of the hobbits he pushes past, till he gets himself up within earshot of Mr. Frodo and the farmer.

"I didn't know she was goin' to do such," Farmer Tilley sounds more than half scandalized about the whole affair, wringing his hands. "Though it did sell a deal of rope and ale, I've got daughters to think about, Mr. Frodo! Daughters sitting over at that very table until their mother hustled them indoors, too late though it was!"

"You don't stop a Took from doing just as she pleases," Frodo murmurs, rueful. He is watching her, just like the other hobbits-- just like the farmer himself, in spite of his annoyance.

"Bad enough my youngest lad's took up gaming the Ropers' boy and won't let him alone; now this!"

Frodo clucks sympathy; his eyes finally move away from Mallow and touch Sam. He smiles, secret-like and sweet, just for Sam, and it makes the blood rush in Sam's face to see it-- before he can help himself, he thinks of Frodo bare to the waist, same as Mallow, whip-slim and riding astride him with back arched and eyes shut, his nipples pretty flower-pink circles on his chest.

The whole world fades away, even the clop of the ponies' hooves in the dust. Sam don't know what his face looks like, but to judge by Frodo's response to it, it must say a fair piece. Frodo licks his bottom lip and turns his head in a way that would be shy except it ain't, looking aside and towards the ground; it bares the long slender line of his throat in a way that fair makes Sam's blood boil.

Not that he can do aught about it now.

He turns towards Mallow in desperation, watching her bend and pose on the ponies' backs. She ain't no help, but she ain't as overwhelming sweet as Mr. Frodo, neither. Rob has one of the torches, and he's lighting the rags tied about the hoop; they go up in a low whoosh that Sam can hear in spite of the babble. Smoke drifts off to one side, and the pale faces of the hobbits waver and distort behind its hot cloud.

Anson has Berry now, not trusting her to Rob, and is running her at the hoop. The hobbits gasp with fear as Mallow launches herself, flipping neatly through. The fire turns her skin and hair to copper-gold; for a second Sam almost thinks it's caught in her hair, which shines like a golden crown. Then she is landed, steady with both feet on Berry's back.

Anson turns the pony and it goes around again, but she turns to face over Berry's tail. Sam bites his lip, near frantic with worry, but she launches over backwards just as light as you please, going right through the hoop, and comes up standing on her hands on the pony's back. The crowd gasps for air, a low sound like wind moaning in the trees.

The hoop is about finished; bits of burning cloth are coming off it and drifting to the ground when she comes about again, but she goes through anyhow, feet-first, the springy muscles in her upper arms bunching and flexing as she pushes off. She stands, proud and poised, atop Berry's back, and takes a slow victory lap about the yard, her arms lifted.

Then she slides down astride Berry's back to speaks a soft word to Anson, and he leads her over next to the abandoned table and the pile of cider casks. She stands, neat as a lady-bird beetle, only to flip end over end and land on one of the barrels, which is stood upright and steady Anson takes the ponies away and Rob goes to loom at her side, near as tall as she is for all he's standing on the ground. "Come and I'll fill your mugs with cider myself, if you've got the coin," she calls, and Sam chuckles in spite of himself as the whole crowd surges forward. Farmer Tilley won't have a drop of cider to sell come morning, nor of ale neither, not if Sam is any judge of hobbits.

"What'll I do?" the farmer moans. "I'm ruined." He ain't seeing Sam's view of the situation, seemingly.

"Give her a few minutes to sell the cider," Frodo murmurs, "Then I'll call her down."

The minutes pass as the farmer moans and paces, wringing his hands; the air is split now and again with yelps from lads who got too bold with Mallow and earned a clout from Rob's hard hand.

At last Mr. Frodo walks forward, parting the crowd as calm as you please-- they make way, once they turn to have a look at him.

"Chalcedony Took!" Frodo calls, and the crowd hushes their babble in surges, until you could hear a leaf drop. Her right name means trouble, and not a hobbit there doesn't know it.

Mallow looks at him, expressionless; she holds a mug in her hands. Her body draws tense like a bowstring at the sound of her name.

"For shame, cousin, not warning your host that this was a bawdy show!" Frodo's voice drops, then lifts again, quite merry. "Would you ruin a hobbit's good name?"

"That was never my intention, cousin." Mallow's voice is quiet, but Sam knows that's dangerous; she only gets this quiet when she's angry.

"Then don't let his neighbors go thinking you planned it with him. He has his daughters to think of, don't you know." Frodo's voice coaxes even as it stays merry. Sam watches him, minding the easy set of his shoulders.

"That I wouldn't, seeing as how I've not spoken a word to either all the day long!" Her voice lifts to meet his, but her shoulders are still tense. "Nor to him, either!"

Frodo nods, smiling broadly. "See?" he addressed the hobbit nearest him in a loud stage whisper, as though they had been talking all along. "What did I tell you? Her own idea. Not a soul here knows Tooks if I don't!"

"Wait till this gets back to Ferumbras and Paladin-- and Eglantine," Frodo whispers again, too loud not to be heard, humor sparkling in his eyes. "They'll turn a few cartwheels of their own." He takes a gulp from his mug and looks more than a little unsteady to Sam's sharp eye, though Sam knows he's not been drinking anywhere near enough for that.

The crowd chuckles at him, faces jolly, and Sam shakes his head in wonder. He's seen Mr. Bilbo play a crowd just so, way back when he was a lad, but he never knew Mr. Frodo had learned the knack.

"And for the sake of the old, cover your modesty, if you still have any!" Frodo concludes, laughing, peeling right out of his own shirt as he stands, balling it in his fist and tossing it over the hobbits' heads to Mallow, who picks it out of the air without difficulty.

He wins a tight smile from her, and she shakes out the shirt.

The hobbits dissolve into delighted laughter as the grey-haired gaffers among their number begin to protest that they don't need no protecting. Sam don't hear no more; his eyes are fixed on Mr. Frodo, whose pale alabaster skin catches the firelight and glows like a jewel as he turns about and weaves his way through the crowd back towards the farmer. Behind him, presumably Mallow is putting his white linen shirt on; around them farmers and neighbors and townsfolk slowly drift away towards their carts and their ponies, mugs in hand and coils of rope or barrels of ale on their shoulders.

Mr. Frodo fair glows in the firelight, and Sam stations himself at his master's side like Rob next to Mallow, for all there ain't so much threat of Mr. Frodo being troubled for not having his shirt on. Sam's heart is pounding hard, high in his throat, as he looks at Mr. Frodo's narrow shoulders and the wiry muscles of his chest. His waist is slim and pale, rising out of his breeches like a lily from the stem, and there isn't a strand of hair on his breast. His navel is narrow and dark, not very deep at all. His nipples make Sam's mouth dry, and Sam's tongue feels thick-- and so does his cock, which is impatient with the torments and temptations of the day.

Something about the way Mr. Frodo stands tells Sam he is aware of Sam's protection and his gaze. Mr. Frodo holds his body poised and elegant, his head turned slightly to one side. By his thighs, the palms of his hands face outward, open and waiting, now that he has set aside his empty mug. He seems to be listening to the farmer's thanks, but his body is languid, unmoving, and his mouth is curved ever so slightly, as though Frodo is smiling for Sam even though he isn't looking at him.

"That one wants ye, and no mistake," Anson's voice murmurs at Sam's ear, sudden and unexpected, and Sam nearly yelps aloud. His heart fair leaps into his mouth as An chuckles. "Look at him preen, now!"

"Anson Roper, don't creep up behind a lad like that," Sam pleads, willing his heart to go back to its rightful place in his chest.

"Mallow put on quite a show for ye, didn't she? But it's wasted, I'm thinkin'." Anson shrugs. "Not that either of ye've got a shortage of bedfellows to choose from tonight, and that's plain. 'Less you're thinking of bunking with the farmer and his wife, or one of their lasses!"

"The show was for you," Sam bites his tongue on the words, too late.

"As I said." Anson shrugs. "I don't give her no come-on, but I can't stop her wantin', Samwise; ye ought to know that much."

And he does; in his mind's eye he sees Rosie Cotton standing in a hot kitchen, her young pride stinging from her mother's rebuke, all eyes for him and all scowls for Mr. Frodo. She ain't got no better lot in love than Miss Mallow, and he wonders how he would feel if Mr. Frodo didn't care if Sam loved him or no. Mayhap Rosie thinks Sam is just gaming, getting it out of his system, the way Mallow seems to think Anson might be doing. After all, most lads give up the gaming and settle with a lass after they come of age, seemingly.

Mallow comes up while he's pondering, Mr. Frodo's shirtsleeves hanging down past her fingertips. She glares at Frodo, who shrugs at her a little.

"I'm sorry, cousin." He lowers his voice. "But the farmer was ready to put you all out tonight, as soon as the crowd went. You ought to have warned him."

Her eyes snap at him, but she accepts his words. "You're as devious as Bilbo ever was. I sold all of Tilley's ale and all but a cask of his cider at a fine profit; I'd have sold every drop if you hadn't interrupted. Rob has the coin bursting holes in his pocket. I daresay our fine farmer will change his tune when he sees the shine of so much silver!"

Frodo nods solemnly, but the corners of his mouth turn up at her. "I didn't want you to sell so much there wasn't any drink left on the farmstead." Sam can tell he is about to burst from trying to hold back his laughter. "Eglantine will burst when she hears this tale," he points out. "There's always a good side to a scandal, isn't there?"

For a moment Sam can't tell whether Mallow means to slap Frodo or burst out laughing; finally she chooses the latter. "You're as much a rascal as I ever was; it's no wonder Lobelia hates you so much."

"There are rascals and then there are ruffians," Frodo muses, his mouth wry, and lifts his mug to her in toast.

"And if you and I are rascals, that son of Lobelia's is the latter." Mallow nods firmly. "I'd best get this shirt back on you before Samwise does his eyes an injury trying not to stare." She nips past Frodo and into the byre, and Rob goes with her, pausing long enough to tip Sam a sly wink.

"Keep an eye on her," Frodo steps up to Sam and warns him soft-like. "She's clever as a cat, and there isn't much she'll not do, once she sets her mind to it."

"Aye," Sam nods, knowing all too well he's in trouble. "I already knew as much!" Between her and Anson, he doesn't have a safe place to sleep tonight.

Frodo shivers; Sam realizes that with the press of the crowd gone, the night has closed in around them, still and cold with the nip of late fall. It's set to frost, and that's a fact. The bonfire is sinking gradually into embers, throwing up sparks as the logs roll and fall.

Rob emerges from the byre without Mallow and wanders over towards the last cask; he's found a handful of clean pewter mugs, seemingly.

"Come under my arm, sir," Sam mumbles gruffly, and slides his arm around Mr. Frodo's bare back, leading him near the embers. "Let's have the cask over here, Rob, and find a poker to put in the fire. I've a mind to mull us all some cider."

Sam helps Rob carry the cask while Anson and Frodo spread horse blankets on the ground to sit on as they wait for the poker to heat. They range themselves about the fire, toasting their hands and faces and sipping from tall mugs. The hard cider burns comfortably warm in Sam's belly even without mulling. Rob breaks up the torches with his hands and tosses them on the fire, and small flames lick at them greedily, sending light dancing on the small ring of faces.

Mallow comes out, her yellow coat and vest back in place, and Mr. Frodo gets up on his knees to put his arms into his shirt sleeves and do up the buttons, but then he slips under Sam's arm again. Sam holds his master close, feeling his heart thumping fierce and tender inside his breast. He tests the poker, which ain't proper ready, but looks like it'll do. He nudges An's foot, unwilling to let go of Mr. Frodo to do the honours himself.

"Dad's off counting," Rob tells Anson. Anson nods and lifts the poker, then goes about dipping it into mugs, which makes a fine hiss and bubble. Sam wraps his hand around the smooth, heavy stoneware, lifting it to his lips and tilting his wrist; the hot cider is good, tart and rich on his tongue, and he closes his eyes, feeling Mr. Frodo moving under his arm and against his side as he drinks from his own mug.

"I've a drop of apple brandy," Rob says, sly, and pulls out a little tin flask. He tips a measure into his mug and passes it around.

Anson reaches, deft as lightning, and tips the flask farther when Mallow pours. She yelps and glares at him, but drinks anyway. Sam sees An send a wink towards Rob when it's done, and reckons they mean to get her too drunk to catch them sneaking off. He doesn't say aught, though; mayhap if she's drunk enough she won't trouble him, either. But she seems to know what the game is, and she sips daintily at the mug, not taking enough to muddy her head.

Except for Miss Mallow, who sits humming to herself as she sips from her mug, the little party is quieter than Sam expects, and it takes him a few minutes to realize Mr. Frodo is the one as is putting a damper on things. Anson keeps shooting Sam's master little glances and then pulling his gaze back towards the fire, while Rob busies himself with the keg of cider and doesn't look at anybody.

Sam is quieter than his wont, too, but for different reasons-- he's not wanting to say anything that might get taken wrong in such difficult company. He wishes he and Mr. Frodo were in the Bindbole wood all by themselves, tucked up under both their blankets. Mayhap even kissing.

A shiver goes through him at the thought; he turns his head and finds Frodo's dark eyes waiting for him, a little rueful. Frodo snuggles close, his arm tightening around Sam's waist. Sam can all but feel Anson and Rob's eyes settling on them, keen with interest, and Mallow's too.

Farmer Tilley comes out before the silence can get too thick. The squeal and snap of the door fair makes Sam jump; of a sudden, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins's sour face comes to mind, and he comes near to pulling his arm away from Mr. Frodo, but his master is still, if not relaxed, so Sam follows his lead.

The farmer stumps up to their little fire, looking about. He can't keep a scowl settled on his brow, so Sam reckons the count went well enough for him to forgive Mallow a good sight more than he had in mind setting out.

Even so, Farmer Tilley carefully doesn't look at the way Mr. Frodo has snuggled under Sam's arm. "Well, lads, Mr. Baggins, and Mistress Took," he clears his throat, his colour rising a bit with that last, "We put away a good deal of coin tonight, if I do say so. "

Mallow tosses her head, a proud tilt to her chin, but she don't say aught, for the farmer ain't finished saying his piece.

"How did it go with you, Master Roper?"

"We sold a tidy bit of rope," Anson answers, soft and lazy-like, as though it's no matter to him whether or no. He looks into the mug in his hand and curls his toes, stretching his feet towards the fire. "A tidy bit. But da will have another waggon-load waiting for us up Nobottle way."

The farmer nods, chin firming with decision. "Well then, I expect you'll be moving on come the morrow."

Anson nods mildly. "I reckon that's so."

Sam sees Rob shoot An a quick glance, his mouth pinched tight, but the lad doesn't dare speak under his father's stern eye.

"Well, the Moon's past middle-night already," Farmer Tilley says. "We'd best find our beds, Mr. Baggins. Isn't that right, Rob? The stock won't wait till noon to want milking." He claps his son's shoulder with a firm hand, a gesture that looks friendly, but which is strong enough it steers Rob a step towards the smial.

Frodo stirs out from under Sam's arm to follow, looking over his shoulder towards Sam for a long moment, his eyes dark with regret and some other message Sam can't quite fathom.

Sam drains his mug, then picks up a stick and pokes at the fire, ignoring how Mallow's and Anson's eyes settle on him as soon as the door bangs shut.

"I reckon I'll turn in. On my own," Sam says pointedly but politely, meaning it for the both of them. He pushes himself up and dusts off his knees, then takes off towards the barn, knowing better than to hope they won't follow.

It's going to be a long night.


	71. A Long Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam fends off numerous unwanted bedpartners and experiences a revelation.

The byre is warmer than the out-of-doors, but not by as much as Sam would like. He hesitates at the ladder to the loft, looking around the area. Tails swish and hooves shift; he can hear the sough of the animals breathing and smell the comfortable and earthy, safe scent of manure. No, perhaps it wouldn't have done for Frodo to stay here.

Sam takes a lantern and carries it up with him, cautious of its spark amidst all the dry hay. There is a pile of horse-blankets laid in wait, clean wool but rough-woven.

He stretches up and hangs the lantern on a hook that dangles from the ceiling right over the ladder, where no careless heads or hands should send it tumbling to ignite the hay, then tests the floor with one foot before he puts his weight on it. Not that 'floor' is a good word for what there is to walk on as he makes his cautious way into the loft; it's more a series of unevenly milled, unsanded planks flung across the rafters, with treacherous spaces left open between for pitching hay and straw bedding down to the animals.

As he takes his share of the blankets, Sam sees a dead hornet near his foot and checks the rafters; there's a fat round nest near the size of his fist at the pitch of the roof, nestled up against the roofbeam. He chooses the other side of the loft from it and finds a likely spot well away from the ladder where some of the hay has been forked down, but there aren't any holes nearby in the floor-- leastways, none big enough for him to fall through.

A bit of work arranging hay and two of the blankets provides Sam with a pleasant nest. As he lies down in it, he can hear Anson and Mallow let themselves inside, arguing in low tones, and he turns his back decisively on them, curling up and hoping to be left alone.

The sounds of the Tilleys' big ox champing its feed and rattling its wooden trough looking for more makes it impossible for Sam to overhear their conversation. He pretends to be asleep, and they fall silent as they climb the sturdy wooden rungs, one after the other, and make their own beds in the hay. At least one of them is too close to Sam for comfort, bedding down just on the other side of a hay-pile from him, and he knows he's in for it, just as soon as whoever it may be judges that the other is asleep.

Sam sighs and shifts a little, stealthy as may be, to escape a prickle of straw at his back. He rather hopes it's Anson who's nearest, for at least he can tell An no-- flat out, without no fancy talk or worry that he won't take it for an answer. That Mallow, though... he judges she's a good deal more determined, and mayhap even flat talk won't suffice.

That thought don't leave his cock lying easy, for all that he's not interested in having Mallow nohow. Sam has to remind himself not to fidget and rustle about in the straw, for it won't do to let the other two know he isn't asleep.

He watches the Moon find the top of the sky through a crack between two boards-- it's that late already, and the dawn won't be as far behind as Sam would like. For all of that, he can't rest; he watches the slow progress of the light as it begins to sink, playing hide and seek behind the boards and the cracks. The lantern burns itself out, but still he can't seem to settle his nerves, half-jumping out of his skin at any rustles from the other two occupants of the loft. Mayhap Mr. Frodo is having a better night of it up at the house.

When a stealthy noise comes that doesn't stop, he holds his breath and squeezes his eyes shut tight; somebody is moving about, and it looks to be whoever is in the bed farthest from Sam But the footsteps don't approach; instead the ladder creaks and somebody goes down. Sam lies tense-- and sure enough, now the other one is stirring about, too.

"I know you're not asleep, Samwise. Your breath sounds like you've just run a race." Mallow's voice is tart and not at all drowsy.

"Begging your pardon, ma'am." Sam makes his tone as humble as he can, hoping to remind her of her place. "I didn't mean to keep you awake."

She makes an annoyed sound in her throat. "He's gone off to meet that Rob," she mutters, half to herself, and Sam hears the sound he's been dreading all along-- her scrambling towards him through the straw.

He sits up right quick. There's enough light in the loft that it catches on her pale hair, and he can see her coming. "Please don't, M-- Mistress Took." He tries to firm his voice, when it quavers on the first words.

She makes the sound of scorn in her throat again, resting on her knees, a pale shadow against the dark of the barn. "Please don't what?" Her voice is too sweet, and the question makes Sam feel like a rabbit in a fox's jaws.

"Please go on back to bed and have a sleep, and let me be doin' the same," Sam says quietly. "It ain't going to make aught better to take on so."

"Taking on isn't what I had in mind." Her voice is silky, but when he doesn't answer, it sharpens. "Any fool with eyes can see you've never had a lass, Sam, and it would take a thicker hobbit than any on this farm to see you haven't had Frodo yet, either." Her sharp tone changes, sultry like a summer morning in the hay. "I saw your eyes on me at the show."

Sam swallows hard, his throat dry. "Mistress Took, eyes don't mean naught, and you shouldn't ought to have had your kit off nohow."

Mallow shifts a few inches closer to Sam, walking forward on her knees, and her body passes through a slit of moonlight that has crept through the cracks. Her shirt is open, and there is a split-second flash when the soft inner curves of her breast are revealed, pale as mother-of-pearl.

Sam's cock jerks, mindless and urgent, and he licks his lips, his tongue dry as saddle-leather. "It seems to me you've been doing a deal of thinking," he says, quick and low, "And if you have, well then, you know I'm for Mr. Frodo, and not for nobody else."

"He'd never have to know." She moves back into the light; it falls along her cheek, and he watches her tongue moves out to lick her lips. "I daresay you've never had someone's mouth on you, Sam." She moves another ell closer, near enough to touch, and Sam shrinks back onto his heels.

"I have so been kissed, and I ain't going to throw away such as Mr. Frodo for--"

"That's not what I meant." Her tone is husky and rich with promise. She lifts her finger to her lips and slides it onto her tongue, a strangely provocative gesture, for all that he ain't never seen a grown lass make it before, and he can't never imagine Rosie Cotton doing it, neither.

His brain doesn't seem to be working like it ought, and for a baffled minute, Sam doesn't know what she means, but then she reaches out and her fingertips tuck into the waist of his breeches, and he jerks away, understanding her at last. His face burns hot as fire. His cock strains at his breeches as though it would go to her whether he wills it or no.

"I don't care what you meant, I reckon," Sam manages, though his voice is hoarse and his cock feels like iron in a forge-fire. "Though I don't mean no disrespect by saying I ain't interested. Mr. Frodo, now, he's worth more than gold and diamonds to me, and I'm his, and that's flat. Just go on back to your pallet, and I won't let on tomorrow that aught happened here if you don't."

"Sam," her voice wheedles, and she scoots forward again, raising her hands to his shoulders. He tries to move away again, but his back is up against the hay and there's nowhere to go. "Just let me show you--"

"Chalcedony, take your hands off him." Frodo's words are cool as winter frost, and Sam nearly collapses with relief. His master's voice comes from the ladder. "He said no, and it sounds to me as though he meant it."

She hisses, rounding on Frodo, her back tense and straight; Sam can make out the white blur of his master's shirt as he climbs through the floor and steps off the ladder. For a second Sam thinks she's about to renew the offer, only with Frodo as her target-- or maybe the both of them-- but then she slinks off to her pallet and curls herself up under her blanket.

Sam is mute; he couldn't speak if he knew what to say, which he doesn't. He stays where he is, watching Frodo pick his way forward past Mallow's bed and come to him. His heart thuds against his ribs so hard it's nearly painful.

"I couldn't sleep, Sam. Every single one of the Tilleys snores, I suppose; down to the dog they put in the hall to keep me from wandering; they were rattling the very walls." Frodo chuckles, completely unconscious of self in spite of their audience. "It growled as soon as I touched my door; I had to come out through the window. Is there room there for two?"

"Oh, yes, sir," Sam breathes, and he scrambles for his blankets, picking them up and shaking out the straw, then spreading one in the little nest he hollowed out for himself. He watches, joy soaring in his breast, as Frodo lies down, and then timidly snuggles down next to his master, covering them both with his other rough blanket.

"Are you comfortable, sir?"

"Mmmm. Much more than inside. The fire smoked, and I don't think the straw ticking in that bed had been refreshed for a year or more." Frodo nestles into Sam's arms, making no comment as his bottom snuggles up against Sam's body and finds his hard cock. Sam swallows unhappily, struggling with a flush of shame-- being a lad, Mr. Frodo would have to know Sam couldn't tell it one thing or the other, no matter what he didn't want with Mallow.

Mr. Frodo doesn't draw back, settling his cheek on Sam's arm and sighing, his breath warm on Sam's skin. Sam lets his hand creep around and find a home on his master's belly. He is delirious with joy; holding Frodo tucked against the curve of his body is just as wonderful as he has always dreamed it would be. He can't help himself but nuzzle at Frodo's ear; Frodo's answering sigh shivers through them both and Frodo's hand steals up to cover Sam's.

Sam's tongue moves of its own will, and he traces it in a long, slow path up to the tip of Frodo's ear, tasting a trace of salt there; Frodo answers him again without words, his hips subtly stirring, pushing back against Sam's cock. Sam tenses, wanting more, but painfully aware of Mallow lying only a few ells away, listening to every sound they make, and mad as a hornet with a kicked nest into the bargain.

Frodo's narrow body is warm, his heartbeat light and rapid against Sam's chest. His curls smell faintly of bergamot, soft and clean against Sam's nose. Sam wants so much he can hardly contain it; he thinks he may die from the need to slide his hand down and discover whether Frodo is responding to him. Frodo pats Sam's hand, seeming to sense his distress, and curls his fingers through Sam's. His hips shift against Sam's cock again, maddening, waking thoughts that swirl wildly through Sam's lust-fogged brain-- thoughts he has barely dared to entertain, but which have plagued him before.

Will Frodo truly let him-- want him... like that? The slow, pulsing motion of Frodo's hips pushing against him speaks more than a hundred sly glances ever have, and Sam would curse Mallow for having ears, if he could. His hand shifts, moving subtly, the flat of his palm covering Frodo's hipbone, pulling him back and bracing him tighter. Soundless, stealthy, Sam rocks his hips forward and up, and feels Frodo's breath on his arm, a silent gasp.

Sam can't bear it anymore; he kisses Frodo's throat blindly and slides his hand downward-- timidly at first and then with more confidence, as Frodo makes no effort to stop him. Past buttons and waistband and farther still, until his hand covers rigid heat, and he traces the shape of his master's desire for the first time.

Frodo turns his head and nips lightly at Sam's arm; Sam can taste sweat on his master's neck. Frodo's cock twitches under Sam's hand, filling and straining, and Sam thrusts firmly against Frodo's slim bottom, not caring about noise anymore-- once, twice, and then there is a rustle that is neither Frodo nor Sam, and Sam flinches-- it's got to be Mallow, turning over in the straw and re-settling her blankets. He means to ignore her, but it's too late; Frodo is already shifting his hips away from Sam, pulling Sam's hand off him, tugging it back up his body to press a rueful kiss into Sam's palm.

He turns over and slides into Sam's arms again, easing the sting of rejection by tucking his head under Sam's chin, carefully keeping their hips apart. "Later," he breathes against Sam's skin, feathering his lips against Sam's throat. "When we're alone." Sam bites his lip, battling the need that roars through him like a river in flood.

They are still, and Frodo's breath slows and gentles; his body grows slack and heavy in Sam's arms. Before long he is asleep, unaccustomed as he is to the hard work of hiking and carrying a heavy pack up and down hill and dale.

Sam is not so tired, though; his cock still throbs, sullen and demanding, and by the time the line of moonlight has crept from its place on the floor to play amidst Frodo's curls, another need makes itself known: Sam has to piss. He should have gone to the privy before he ever came up, but Anson and Mallow were distracting him, and he didn't think of it.

After a time, when the thread of moon has left Frodo's hair and is now a glowing stripe on Sam's arm, the need is unbearable, and he gently detaches himself from the clinging tangle of limbs that is his sleeping master. Frodo grumbles low in his throat, resisting, but Sam breathes a word of explanation in his ear, and Frodo lets him go, cocooning himself in Sam's blanket so tightly Sam wonders if he'll ever be able to pry Frodo out of his own share when he comes back.

He gives Mallow a stealthy, wide berth; he can almost feel her eyes boring holes in his back as he climbs down the ladder. It occurs to him that he never heard An come back up; perhaps An is somewhere outside. Probably with Rob, if Sam's guess is right.

Sam picks his way through the farmyard towards the privy, trying his best to avoid stepping anywhere the animals have been. It's easier said than done now that the Moon is behind the byre, casting its ink-dark shadow like a sea of night across the ground. He rounds the edge of the byre and picks out the line of the privy's roof-tree off towards the edge of the paddock; the going is easier now that he has a bit of light.

He makes proper use of the little wooden hut and decides to take a different way back to the byre-- past a raised trough used for rinsing hands and the suchlike before going in the farmhouse.

He is standing there, wondering how to dry his freshly-rinsed hands, when he sees a shadow move-- a shadow shaped like a hobbit.

Remembering the crowd from before, any one of whom could have entertained notions about stealing something off the Tilleys' land, Sam abandons his quest to dry his hands and steals after the shadow, moving as soft as ever he can. Presently he hears the hiss of voices from behind the corn-crib.

"By thunder, you've been a time, Rob!" Anson's voice, that is.

And Rob's voice answers him: "Well, that Baggins stirred the dogs up somehow; Da got up to check on the girls and sat up for two hours or more in the hallway with a cudgel. Be he Baggins or be he no, he won't leave a by-blow on my sisters if my dad has a say in it."

"He ain't got an eye for your sisters," Anson chuckles, teeth chattering a bit. "And that's a fact."

Sam relaxes and thinks he'd best be about his own business, but the next words slow his steps. "Aye, he's more than an eye for that Samwise, if you ask me."

"Aye." There is a sound Sam can't identify, sibilant and shifting. "More than an eye indeed, for all Sam's Gaffer can do."

That's enough to Stop Sam in his tracks, ears perked, wary, but they don't say aught more about the Gaffer, nor Mr. Frodo, neither.

Come over here, Anson Roper, and we'll go inside the corn-crib. There's a loose board, just-- there it is." A creak heralds the moving board, and then Sam doesn't hear aught for a moment.

"It's warm in here," An says suddenly, sounding a little worried. "Your Da best mind that there's not mold in the wheat."

"Aye, he knows." Rob chuckles. "He's been sayin' we'll dry it and have it milled any day now. We'd have done it today if you hadn't come along."

"I reckon we'll move along tomorrow."

"I wish you wouldn't, and that's a fact."

"It's a roper's life for me, Rob." Anson doesn't sound too concerned. "And I'd rather have it than a farmer's, or a gardener's, either."

"Come over here-- that's better." Their voices recede, and Sam dithers, torn between wanting to get back to Mr. Frodo and needing to hear what they have to say-- he won't have no hard words said about his Gaffer. But they don't say no more, and Sam is just stirring to leave when he's distracted by a wet sound, as of mouths meeting, and a slippery sound of grain moving.

Sam knows he ought to back away, but his curiosity gets the better of him. He creeps up to the corn-crib and finds the crack where the loose board slid aside. There's a bit of sacking on the ground, and he kneels there, putting his eye to the crack. Rob is working with flint and tinder, and putting a bit of light to a lantern. He has a blanket hanging from the rafter to shield its glow from the front of the shed so nobody in the house can see it; the two of them sit at ease, each on an upended bushel basket.

"So had ye been waiting long?"

"Aye." Anson blows into his hands to warm them. "I thought I'd freeze it off, waiting for you."

"Come over and put those hands under my shirt," Rob offers amiably. "That's better. I reckon Sam's having a time of it right now." He chuckles.

"How so?" Anson sounds a bit peevish at the subject.

"With that Mallow. She meant to have a lad tonight, or I'm a rabbit."

Anson relaxes. "Oh, aye, I reckon she meant to at that, but he won't have her." Anson's hands wander under Rob's shirt, and Rob nips at the line of Anson's jaw. "He's too stubborn to take copper when he's got his mind set for brass, that one. He wouldn't give me a tumble even before him and Mr. Frodo got so tight." Rob gasps, instead of answering and Anson chuckles.

Sam squirms a bit, uncomfortable; it looks like Anson's hands are on Rob's nipples.

"Well, your Mallow looks a bit of stubborn too--" Rob stops talking when Anson's mouth covers his; Sam thinks maybe he ought to be leaving, but his cock is hard and heavy in his breeches again, never having quite given up on Frodo, so to speak. The way the sinews in their throats work as they kiss has caught his eye. He shifts his knees, giving himself a bit more room.

"--Mayhap we ought to have had her out here and gamed her. She'd look a bit of all right on her knees between the two of us." Rob sounds breathless; Anson moves to sit across his lap.

"She'd have done it, too, and then we'd never hear the end of it," Anson protests. "You can't game a lass like you do a lad; it don't matter how wild she is, and you know it. I'd have had to marry her, and then what? My da ready to clout me for ruinin' the show, and by-and-by I'll have a waggon-load of half-Took bastards to cart about the countryside, and no idea which of them is mine, plus the Thain breathing down my neck. She tells me off to do what she wants more than enough as it is, without me having to marry her!"

Sam winces; the description may not be kind, but he reckons it's accurate. Mallow's a wild one, and no mistake. Not a proper lady at all.

"Then we ought to have had that Sam out here to show him how it's done, so he knows how to make a proper job of it with his Baggins!" Rob answers him back, and shifts so that Anson is pressed up tight against him.

An's mouth is wet and his eyes are bright as he looks at Rob. "Aye," he breathes. "I'd like to watch Sam bend you over, at that."

Rob laughs at him. "It's you he'd bend over for tupping," Rob kisses Anson again, his hand sliding up An's strong spine, bringing the homespun shirt along with it. "And me who'd put my cock in your mouth the while." He pulls An's shirt over his head and tosses it over a pile of grain.

Sam doesn't know if his face could get any hotter or flush deeper crimson if he were on fire, but he wouldn't move now for money. Anson moans, writhing on Rob's lap. "Then you'd best be about it, for tonight's all the time we've got, and I don't know when we'll be back this way again."

"Like you don't have a strapping lad or two waiting for you in the next town?" Rob scoffs, but Sam can hear the rue in his voice. "You're as wild as that Mallow, Anson Roper."

"I've got none other who tups a lad like you do, Rob Tilley." An scrambles up; his nipples are copper in the lantern light, his chest thatched thick with golden-red hair, just like Sam's own. "The way you're hung, I'd say your mam got her servicing from an ox, if I didn't know your da was hung just the same."

"And how do you know that, eh?" Rob doesn't sound the slightest bit put out with the insult. "No, don't be telling me; I'm not for knowing." He reaches out, catching one of Anson's nipples between a thumb and forefinger, and moves in to kiss him.

Sam watches him pinch it tight and twist it as he kisses An, who makes breathless little yelps in his throat with each move of Rob's broad hand. He's never seen such a thing; his chest is tight and his cock is on fire, so bad he can't keep the heel of his hand from pressing it, no matter how much he tells himself he ought to be away up into the byre to Mr. Frodo. He and Jolly never did such, nor talked so, neither!

"Aye, I'll tup you if you want it," Rob growls at length. "And so well you remember me long after Nobottle!" He pushes on An's bare shoulders, forcing him down to his knees; An goes, a smile on his face, and undoes Rob's laces quick as can be.

Rob's cock pushes its way out, thick and dark, and Sam feels his stomach turn, lust mixing uneasily with shame. Rob has a big one, but not that much more than Sam's own. Sam doesn't rightly know how that stacks up; he's only ever held Jolly's-- and Mr. Frodo's too, now.

In spite of his gruff words, Rob is gentle; his hand steadies An's jaw and he moves slow and easy as he pushes himself toward An's face. An licks him like a sweetmeat, tongue leaving Rob's cock gleaming wet. The decadent sweetness of the sight makes Sam think of cherries and Mr. Frodo's wicked pink tongue; he knows at last just why his Gaffer took such alarm as to send him away.

Rob rocks forward onto An's tongue, and An's mouth closes around him; his cheeks hollow. Rob makes a low grunt in his chest, deep and satisfied, and pushes forward again. His breeches fall, revealing the flex and tension of the muscles in his backside and his legs.

Sam runs his hand along his cock in spite of himself, pressing hard with the heel of his palm; his head is swimming with the sight of An's wide-spread knees, and his hollowed cheeks and the stretch of his lips, and the way his eyes look up to find Rob's as he takes more and more of Rob's cock inside his mouth.

 _Frodo_ , a voice chants hungrily in the back of Sam's mind. _Frodo, Frodo._ Frodo on his knees, Frodo's soft little pink bow of a mouth, Frodo's eyes....

Sam whimpers, snatching his hand off himself before he can stain his breeches. Rob rocks his hips back and forth, tupping An's mouth, and An's hand comes up to work the shaft. Rob's breath is hoarse and thick, like an animal pulling a load that's too heavy up the steep part of Bagshot lane. He leans forward, pushing An right up against the wall, bracing his palms on the boards; his hips keep working, and An keeps taking it, hands on Rob's hips now, eyes still locked on Rob's.

"No more of that now, or you won't get what you're wanting," Rob mutters thickly and pulls back, his cock gleaming wet.

An scrambles up, a smirk curling the side of his mouth, and turns around. He unfastens his breeches and kicks them off, standing naked. His chest is deep, his ribs padded with solid muscle. Sam has seen it hundreds of times, but never thought of it so; he's seen An swimming, but never realized how the curve of his arse tempts the eye.

Rob goes and finds a little tin of tallow on a shelf, tucked up against a beam where Sam would have never spotted it. He opens the lid and sets it aside, reaching in.

Sam doesn't know which to watch-- Anson bracing against the wall and leaning over, spreading his legs wide, or Rob scooping out two fingers of tallow and stroking it along his cock easily with his thick fist. Sam tries to watch both, his hand sliding into his breeches and finding himself again without him ever thinking of putting it there.

Rob dips his fingers again and puts the tallow aside, lidding it deftly with his left hand, and goes to An, reaching for him with that same hand, steadying him. His tallow-greased fingers slide down the cleft of An's arse-- and then push in. Sam clenches his jaw so hard it hurts, trying to bite back the moan in his throat; he doesn't feel the chill of the air around him as he pulls himself out.

The noise An makes as Rob's finger goes in covers Sam's throttled moan.

This must be what Lotho meant, then. This thing; this half-shameful fire in Sam's belly, this thick-tongued, guilty savor. The way Rob's finger presses into An's arse. The slick sound of it going into him and coming out again. The strangled wail An makes when Rob pushes a second finger inside. Sublime and terrible and irresistible, this thing-- Sam has no more control over his body than a bull in rut. Too terrible and wonderful to understand, this thing, as unlike what Sam has done with Jolly as a candle is to wildfire.

Rob's arm moves; he tups An with his fingers, and An shudders, gasping, spreading his legs wider.

"Just there," he whimpers. "Just like that, there, yes. There!"

Sam sees Frodo. He sees Frodo, bent forward; he sees himself. His fingers. He hears his own chuckle, rich with love. His cock is like a rod of white-hot iron. When Anson pulls his fingers out, they are Sam's; when he pushes his cock in by slow inches, it is Sam's cock opening Frodo. Sam watches, holding so tight to the board he might as well be part of it; his fingers clench bloodless white.

"Rob...!" Anson's voice breaks as Rob's cock-head vanishes inside him. "Please!"

Rob keeps pushing, teeth sunk in his lip. Anson quivers and he withdraws, not quite all the way, and then pushes again.

"All of it, all of it, all of it," Anson gasps, struggling to move his legs even wider, chanting the words like a spell. "Now!"

And Rob does. With a shove of his hips, he pushes it in, sinking so deep his belly and thighs cradle Anson's arse. He pushes so deep he lifts Anson right up on tiptoe, pushing him against the blanketed wall.

An wails and Rob covers his mouth with his left hand, muffling the cry, biting at his shoulder.

Sam almost comes; he squeezes his eyes so tight shut he sees white, and his fingers dig painfully into his cock, holding climax off.

When he can open them again, Rob is already moving, tupping Anson with firm, slow strokes. Sam knows he shouldn't be here; he should go. He should never have stayed to watch such a thing; it ain't for his eyes. But he can't leave; he couldn't walk if he tried, not in this state. Anson is gleaming in spite of the cool; sweat glides down his ribs in runnels. Rob's hand seals firm over his mouth, covering his cries.

Sam has seen dogs and chickens mate, of course; any farm-lad has. He has seen the violent coupling of ducks on the Water; he has seen dragonflies latched together on lily-pads or in flight. On one memorable occasion, he saw an ox cover its mate-- awkward and terrifying, that; the sire rearing up and crashing down on the dam's back so hard it seemed sure she'd be crushed, sheathing a length bigger than Sam's leg in her. But he has never seen anything like this-- never seen a mating as graceful and tender as it is essentially brutal.

He has heard cats mate, the wails and the yowling, and thought how terrible it must be for the she-cat to endure, but he has never heard any creature make sounds like the ones muffled in Anson's throat. An's cock is hard too; it swings between his legs and Rob catches hold of it, pulling it through his tallow-greased hand, and Anson's cries grow louder. Those are cries of pleasure, Sam understands: cries of a feeling too large to hold inside.

Rob kisses and sucks at Anson's neck; his hands support Anson even as they wring pleasure from him. His hips pump faster, forward and up, lifting Anson onto his toes. The picture is fierce and animal and terrible, frightening... and, somehow, beautiful. Beautiful in every line of tendon and sinew and straining muscle, beautiful in the way Rob's hands gently cover Anson's mouth and curl around his cock.

Rob moves, adjusts his feet, and drives forward again, faster. Sam surrenders, stripping his cock with his whole hand now, following the fierce beat of their rhythm, making it his own. Rob drops his hand, not seeming to care now if An cries out, and he does.

"Yes. Hard!"

Rob's hands settle on Anson's shoulders, holding him down, and he thrusts hard, low cries in his throat now as well, and Sam can't watch anymore, because his bones are melting; he erupts, spatting the wall and the board and the bit of sacking, his cry lost in theirs as the three of them shatter.

Rob catches Anson, cradling him gently; his hands lower Anson to the ground. The blanket has fallen, and he spreads it out for them to curl up in. Sam watches, shaking, as Rob pulls Anson against his body tenderly-- exactly as Sam cradled Frodo earlier.

Rob kisses Anson's temple, and Anson murmurs softly. Sam sees Rob's face in that moment; his tenderness and his gentle sorrow and his resignation-- and then Rob reaches for the light and blows it out.

Sam scoots clumsily away from the crib, hardly caring if he makes a noise or not-- the picture of them seems engraved on his eyelids. Already he knows he will never forget the sight of Rob tupping Anson-- servicing him. For Rob was serving him; serving Anson's pleasure even as he took his own. And Anson loved it, bucking and mewling against the hard palm over his mouth, pushing back for more and then driving forward into Rob's hand, begging for more of it, until they both collapsed.... and then Rob cared for his lover, as much as he could. As much as he was allowed.

It all makes sense now, what Sam didn't understand before; he understands the truth behind the ugly words he has often wished he could drive back down Lotho Sackville-Baggins's throat with his fists. Lotho doesn't understand; he doesn't see the beauty. He doesn't see the way Rob cradled Anson; he doesn't see the way Sam would cradle Frodo and care for him. Or maybe he does see it, and he knows he doesn't have this thing himself, so he would take it from others if he could.

Frodo wants this; he wants this beauty. It makes sense, at last, perfect and crystalline as the stars shining down overhead in the frosty autumn sky.

Sam can do what he's just seen, do that for Frodo. It is a certainty the sight of Rob's final kiss has driven deep into his bones. He has understood it now; he knows it for what it is, and he knows how. And he knows Frodo wants this thing, wants to take it from him-- and wants to give it to him in return, unimaginably precious in the sharing, far more so than what he has just witnessed. They're two parts of the same whole, him and Mr. Frodo: his place is by his master, in this and in all things.

Sam understands dimly but surely that if Frodo didn't want him, Sam would be no better off than Mallow. He would be lost and alone, with this thing inside himself, unable to share it. Only then would it turn ugly and terrible.

He hopes Mallow will not turn into another Lotho from carrying such a thing inside herself, desperate and alone.

It is too much to think about; now that Sam's body has its ease, his head is heavy and he wants his bed. He wants Frodo's slim warmth in his arms; his master-- his love-- awaits him.

Sam pushes himself to his feet and steps back, trembling, his knees weak as a colt's. He staggers off towards the barn, where he will lie down with his Frodo and wait for the right time.


	72. Airs and Heirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam are interrupted by Tooks.

It is rather later than usual when Sam stirs awake, and when he does, his first awareness is the heavy warm body nestled in his arms. Frodo's hair tickles Sam's nose and lips with every breath he takes. A pail rattles downstairs, and the prolonged, regular drumbeat of milk spurting into an empty bucket gradually turns to a hushed purr as the bucket fills. beyond the walls of the byre, chickens cluck and a rooster crows; Sam can hear cattle chewing hay from their stalls below, a low rustle and grinding sound punctuated by the thumping of mangers. Comfortable and reassuring, these farmyard sounds mean morning on any farmstead in the Shire.

And even more comfortable, Mr. Frodo is lying in his arms, and though Sam's arm is asleep, the weight of Frodo's head on Sam's shoulder is as dear as his own breath. They have tangled together in the night, Sam easing onto his back, and Frodo lies half-across him, his thigh resting over Sam's. Sam listens quietly for any sound which will tell him whether Anson or Mallow are still asleep, or up and about. Anson snores, he knows; he can't hear that, so perhaps they have gone.

He wonders what the farmer thinks, arising and finding his honored guest already out and about. It would seem his master doesn't care about that. No doubt everyone knows Frodo wandered in the night, though, as the whole farmstead is up and about. The sounds of work leave Sam with a nagging sense of unease, as though he is shirking, but he's still too sleepy to care much, and with Frodo wrapped around him, he might not care even if he were fully awake.

As Sam lies still, half-drowsing and content, he remembers the only other time he woke like this, with Mr. Frodo curled up in his arms-- the two of them, just lads still, tucked away under the shade of willows on a mossy riverbank. That time, Frodo was bare and cuddled close to escape the chill of the evening. Ah, and he shouldn't think such things, for that wakens a part of him that's ever too ready to leap up of a morning.

And that stirring awakens Frodo; he shifts, pressing against Sam in a luxuriant stretch, his eyes blinking open. Sam loses himself in their depths-- so close he can't focus, but he doesn't care.

Then Frodo lifts his head and looks away. "Mallow and Anson have gone," he whispers, and he moves, and in an instant his body is over Sam, lying right on him.

Sam's arms rise eagerly to cradle his master, pulling him down tight even as Frodo dips his head for a kiss. Drowsiness burns away in an instant as they kindle for each other, and for the first time Sam can drink his fill of Frodo's mouth. He slides his fingers into Frodo's hair, holding his head still with one hand, pushing Frodo's mouth open with his tongue, and then turns them over quick, to lie atop him-- this much he knows how to do from Jolly, this quick urgent kissing, and from Jolly he has learned the pleasure of wrestling to hone the sweet edge of what they never quite dared to do.

But Frodo has no qualms, seemingly. He goes without a struggle, moans very low in his throat, and opens his mouth willingly for Sam. As they shift his legs part; his ankles hook behind Sam's legs and they thrust against one another, delirious with sensation, the barn and the farmer's kin quite forgotten-- until the creak and clunk of the byre's door startles him into drawing his face away and looking into Frodo's eyes, startled.

Frodo laughs and shakes his head; he lifts his chin and twines his arms behind Sam's neck. Sam sinks back into the kiss, helpless to resist-- until a loud cough comes from below, anyhow. He pulls back again, alarmed lest his master be caught in such an awkward state, but Frodo sinks his fingers into Sam's hair, refusing to be daunted, and lifts his hips, rolling them over so that Sam is on the bottom, darting his tongue into Sam's mouth.

Sam can hear a creaking and a rustling now, but he's helpless to resist Frodo's delightful determination, flipping them over again almost without thinking so that he's on top again, loving the feel of Frodo beneath him. Mayhap whoever it is ain't coming up--

"It's well into the morning, Sam," Anson calls from too near, and Sam jerks his face away from the kisses for a third time, jumping half out of his skin. "And you're abed yet!" Sam slides off his master in haste, his mind flailing in a panic. It's too late to do aught about the straw in their hair, confound it!

An climbs into the loft lazily, his head finally appearing over the rough board floor, dim-lit from below. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Baggins." He touches his cap, but it doesn't do anything to hide his merry, knowing look. "And it's you I've come to find, sir, for a waggon-load of Tooks has come. They're here for Mallow, and there looks to be an awful row brewing."

It takes a few moments for Anson's words to strike home, Sam is so torn between desire and embarrassment, but Frodo recovers more quickly. "I'm sorry, Sam," he murmurs, reaching to touch Sam's mouth with his fingertip. "I'm afraid I'll have to go down."

"Anson, go ahead, if you would, and tell them I'll be along right away." Frodo's voice is pleasant but cool.

Anson leaves reluctantly, and Frodo sighs, staring up at the rafters for a moment. "Bilbo always used to call interruptions by meddlesome relations the Shire's worst curse, and I'm beginning to believe him." He flails for a moment to escape from the blankets, and pushes himself to his knees. Sam follows suit, reluctant and aching.

"Aye, he was that wise," he says gruffly, trying to hide his disappointment. "Come here, sir, and let me pick the straw out of your hair. It won't do to go down showing where you've slept."

Frodo comes to him, and as Sam picks the hay out of his hair, he slides his arms around Sam's neck, which proves a considerable distraction.

"They won't interrupt us again once we're back at Bag End," Frodo murmurs, and lifts his mouth to Sam's. "Will they?"

"Aye, that they won't. Not if I have to nail the door shut," Sam dares to whisper against his master's mouth. He lets his hands slide all the way down Frodo's slim back and pulls his master up tight against him. "For we've waited long enough, by my thinking."

Frodo's tongue slides into his mouth by way of answer, hungry and sweet, and Sam gives himself over to the kiss, meeting it with his own, until he near forgets himself again-- but Frodo remembers, and he pulls away, a rueful chuckle on his lips.

"I've got to go down," he shakes his head, a crease pinching on his brow. "I don't think Mallow will take this well; I'm surprised we don't already hear her shouting."

Sam hastily finishes finger-combing Frodo's hair and helps him straighten his clothes; his master buttons his long coat-- the better to hide his lingering interest in what they were doing before they were interrupted. "You pack up and come too, Sam, quick as you may."

"Yes, sir." Sam gathers up the blankets and shakes them out, then folds them and returns them to their pile in haste, and swings himself down the ladder as quick as may be. He snags the strap of his pack and goes down. An is waiting for Sam downstairs.

"They can't find Mallow. Or Farmer Tilley, for that matter," he chuckles low in his throat. "His wife's all of a lather." Sam winces; he doesn't need Anson to draw any clearer picture.

Anson falls in behind him as he goes out. Frodo is over by the waggon, talking with half-a-dozen well-dressed hobbits. The daughters and Rob are in the byre, tending to the stock, but Mrs. Tilley is out in the yard, looking about for her husband. Sam sees her gaze fix on the middle distance. In a moment, her brow furrows and her mouth pinches tight. Following her look, he sees the farmer headed down from one of the hills north of the farmyard, where apple trees grow, their branches pruned to hang downwards. Of course Mallow is right behind him, walking lazy and casual, wearing a look like a cat that's been into a bird's nest.

The farmer's wife folds her arms, and her mouth goes white; Sam doesn't think he'd care to hear what she'll be saying as soon as she's off alone with the farmer.

He watches Mallow's expression change, turning inward and sullen when she sees the waggon-load of Tooks. The farmer swallows, throat bobbing, and turns a too-bright smile on his wife. "My dear, I just went up to check on a bit of grafting in the orchard, and Miss Mallow was there--"

"Grafting, is it? A likely story, come this season." She levels a look on Mallow that would curdle new milk. "A likely story indeed." Mrs. Tilley turns so quick her apron strings come near to crackling, and vanishes into the smial.

"Good morning, Farmer Tilley," one of the newcomers steps forward, a round hobbit with a fine velvet coat and breeches, and a golden chain hanging at his weskit. "We hate to intrude on your morning's work, but we've heard one of our kin was visiting with you, and we thought to come greet her." His pleasantry is so casual it almost seems not to refer to Mallow's indiscretions, in spite of the tension that hangs like a shroud over the bright morning.

The elder Took hooks his thumb in his waistband, dismissing the farmer with a cordial nod, and narrows his eyes at Mallow ever-so-slightly. "Chalcedony, come over; we'd like a word with you." He reaches into his weskit and draws out a fat golden watch, ostentatiously lifting the knob to wind it. She goes to him as bidden, scowling and scuffing her feet, taking her time about it. The farmer darts a nervous glance towards his smial, then edges away and vanishes into the byre.

"She shouldn't ought to have done such with Farmer Tilley," Sam frets, so low only Anson can hear him, watching after the mistress of the farm as the door shuts behind her with a sharp bang.

"'Tain't the first time he's had a bit of a game on the side." Anson stops just at Sam's shoulder, crunching an apple, and he tips Sam a wink. 'He's got a fine, stout hand with the plow."

"And you oughtn't to have done such with him, neither. For shame!" Sam says, a bit sharper, and Anson shrugs.

"Rob wasn't there and his da was handy." That seems to be all the answer he thinks Sam requires; Sam just shakes his head with disgust. He goes over to the washing-trough to rinse his face and neck, and bends an ear to the soft buzz of the Tooks and their muttering. Mallow looks mutinous, her face darkening like a thundercloud.

"I'll do as I please, and I don't care what Ferumbras says, or his lickspittle Paladin, or any of you lot." Her voice rises, indignant. "Or you either, Adelard Took, never mind your airs and your heirs!"

"That's as may be," he answers her, polite but as stern as a stone. "Nevertheless, you've an audience with the Thain come Trewsday, and I aim to see you there, if I have to carry you to Tuckborough tied in a sack."

"I won't be fetched home like one of Paladin's wayward daughters!" She lifts her chin in the air, backing away; the Tooks fan out around her.

"Chalcedony." Frodo's voice is quiet. "You don't have a choice. You'd best go with them quietly."

She stares at him, a wild thing at bay, her eyes snapping. "The clan has already disowned me; that means I'm not under the Thain's rule any longer." Her eyes dart to Adelard. "You've no right to cart me back there when Ferumbras crooks his finger. I won't be disposed off; I won't stand for being married off to some fat old Bolger and walled up inside a kitchen, playing brood mare to his stud and tending his puling brats!"

"You won't have to do that. On my word of honor," Frodo says quietly, and Adelard's eyes dart to him with alarm.

"Now, Frodo--" he harumphs, shaking his grizzled head. "Don't be hasty, lad, don't be hasty."

Mallow's eyes fix on Frodo, narrowed and intent. "And you think you can face down the Thain?" Sam notes that the Tooks have closed in behind her, a placid menace, but a force to be reckoned with all the same.

Sam can see the tension gathered in Frodo's shoulders, and knows he must be uncertain, but to his credit, Frodo never flinches.

"I'll see to it you aren't forced to marry against your will." Frodo's jaw is set; he looks almost exactly as stubborn as Bilbo did when he was in a temper-- and Sam knows the Thain never lived who could stir Bilbo Baggins so much as a step, not when he didn't want to go.

Adelard harumphs and pats down his weskit, searching for his pipe. "We shall see, I suppose." He finds it and puts the stem between his teeth, not bothering to pack it with tobacco first.

Mallow is still staring at Frodo; after a moment she seems to surrender, and her shoulders slump a little. "I'll get my clothes."

"Reginard, you and Herubrand go with her and help her carry her things." Adelard nods at two strapping lads.

"See that she doesn't run off out the back of the byre, more like," Anson says out of the corner of his mouth. "I reckon I'll be loading up and heading out to meet Da alone. He won't like it that we've got no show."

Sam isn't listening; Frodo's eyes have sought and caught his across the farmyard. "Sam, will you come here, please?"

Sam goes; he can see the dismay and regret in Frodo's steady gaze. "I'm afraid our walking holiday must be cut short," Frodo says quietly, but not without regret. "I'm going to have to accompany my cousins to Tuckborough." The words are imposing, formal and correct, and Sam takes his cue from them.

"I'll be off home, then." Sam swallows disappointment, keeping his chin up bravely. "The smial's already closed up, so it won't be any trouble arranging to let it keep a while longer." He straightens his spine, matching Frodo calm for calm. "Shall I come to the Smials in Tukborough after I pack up bit of luggage for you?"

"No, that won't be necessary-- and since we'll be riding, I hope I'll be on the road back to Hobbiton almost before you can make it there walking. I'll write if I'm delayed. Besides, Pippin and I are nearly of a size now. If I run short, I can borrow out of his closet." Frodo's eyes caress Sam's face, as gentle as his words are brisk.

"Yes, sir." Sam struggles against disappointment once more.

"I haven't forgotten our unfinished business. We'll see to it as soon as I return." The corner of Frodo's mouth curls, and the simmering promise in his eyes fair makes Sam dizzy. "Have a hammer and plenty of nails on hand."

Sam thinks he won't be needing a hammer; there's something else he could use to drive nails with just about now. "Yes, sir," he manages, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth.

Mallow comes out, carrying a small pack Sam knows has all her clothes and possessions inside; her mouth is a straight white line. The Tooks close in around her and go off with her towards the waggon.

"You mentioned the smial," Frodo says suddenly, much softer than his previous words. "You don't have to leave it closed, Sam. Your room is inside. I rather hoped you would come to think of it as your home, too...." There is something vulnerable and uncertain in his eyes now, almost hesitant.

A knot Sam didn't even know he had in his chest comes loose, and he smiles, soft as that worried look in Frodo's eyes. "And so I do. I'll have the place open and aired out for you when you get home, sir, and the linens nice and fresh."

That brings the smile Sam wants, and Frodo reaches to squeeze his shoulder. "Thank you, Sam." He turns about to go to the farmhouse. "I'll be ready in a moment," he calls over to Adelard and the Tooks, and vanishes inside.

Sam reckons that his cue to be packing up too; he won't be none too welcome around here, nor Anson, neither, once the Tooks are gone and Mrs. Tilley wants a free rein.

By the time he comes down with his pack, Frodo is climbing into the Tooks' waggon, and Anson has his all but loaded too. Frodo waves as Adelard clucks to his horses and they take off down the lane.

"Ride with me to Nobottle," An suggests. "You don't want to walk across country, and Da will be waiting there. Mayhap he'll ride us down to Hobbiton and help me sell whatever he's brought, once he hears we've got no show."

Sam thinks on it a minute; Andy probably would like an excuse to visit with Sam's dad. "Aye," he says; it probably won't speed him none, but at least he won't be fretting himself wandering about all alone. "That sounds better than walking." He hops up beside his cousin, tossing his pack in the near-empty waggon-bed.

"I wouldn't have come up and stopped your game if not for them Tooks," Anson says, keeping his voice low and clucking to the pony. "Better me than one of them, I'm thinking."

It wasn't a game, not the way Anson thinks of gaming, but Sam nods gratefully nonetheless.

"Himself didn't look none too happy about stopping, nor you neither."

Sam nods, looking away for a moment, still a bit shy about discussing the matter.

Rob catches Sam's eye; he's watching them go, leaning wistfully on his shovel out behind the byre. The manure-pile steams in the early morning chill.

"Well, he won't dawdle none, I reckon." Anson chuckles, but Sam doesn't. Judging by the stern, grand way them Tooks looked, Frodo won't be heading back near as soon as he hopes.

"Anyhow, it'll be the sweeter when he comes back, all hot and bothered from the wait." Anson nudges Sam with his elbow and gives him a mischievous grin. This time Sam can't help but answer in kind; his mouth turns up in spite of his best efforts.

Rob lifts his hand in farewell as they pass, and Anson gives him a cheery wave. Then the farm is behind them, for the ponies are drawing the waggon briskly down the hill, trundling it around the bend and up over a little wooden bridge in the road, headed for Nobottle and the horizon.


	73. At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam find a moment to themselves.

Late one early November afternoon, the wind turns, scattering leaves and dust in a swirl through Hobbiton and carrying them halfway to Bywater. The watery yellow sunlight, which has failed all day to warm the damp air, fades behind leaden-grey clouds. Snow begins spitting from gathering clouds, carried on a thin north wind-- tiny flakes of ice at first, sharp enough to sting. Families quickly take their leave from the Bywater market, trudging down roads huddled in groups or departing on waggons and traps, headed towards their cozy holes.

Sam puts a bottle of milk in to his basket and turns to his sister, blinking the snow out of his lashes. If wintry weather is setting in, there won't be no telling when Mr. Frodo might make it back from Tuckborough. He tries not to let his shoulders droop with his discouragement. It's been a long fortnight indeed since Frodo set forth with his Took kin to see to Miss Mallow's affairs, and only one letter to tide Sam over-- short and businesslike, warning Sam about the unexpected delay of his return.

"Come on, May, we've got enough between us." Sam nudges her arm and nods towards the Road. The stalls are closing down anyway, for nobody wants to be caught out in the storm.

Sam and his sister start up the Road together, heavily laden with bread and milk and eggs and taters and other foodstuffs from the market. They have enough for a week, Sam reckons-- not just for the Gamgee family, but for him and Mr. Frodo, as well, should the master return. Sam edges between May and the brunt of the wind, rounding his shoulders against its buffeting.

A last few leaves, stripped from the late-autumn branches, tumble past in a wild swirl and drift with others against the Hill. "Let's hurry," Sam urges May, and they quicken their pace, Sam keeping a steadying hand on her back. He still has to put away his purchases and fill the woodboxes up at the smial, but he reckons he has enough time to see his family settled safely before he heads up to Bag End.

Number Three looks cozy and welcoming, smoke rising from the chimney, its little round windows alight with a warm glow. Sam still finds it strange sometimes to think it isn't his own home no more. But for all of that, it's still his family's home, and he still loves the little hole and the three hobbits who yet live there.

"Sam, 'ee best mind the weather." The Gaffer meets them at the door and takes Sam's parcels awkwardly before he can properly cross the threshold. His old dad pauses, waiting till May goes inside. His brows beetle into a scowl. "While you've been down to market, a pony cart come up the Hill." The lines of his frown cut deeper into his forehead, and he lowers his bushy eyebrows. "Not so long ago, neither. I reckon 'twas Himself back from Tuckborough."

Sam's heart leaps in his breast, but he tries to keep from showing it. He can't keep his breath from quickening, though.

The Gaffer scowls and rolls his eyes impatiently; no use trying to hide naught from him. "I reckon 'ee won't linger, knowing 'ee. Go off to him quick as may be, won't 'ee. But can 'ee lay us in a bit of wood before 'ee go?"

"That's my plan," Sam says, and trots back out to the woodpile, filling his arms with all he can carry. The Gaffer opens the door for him when he comes back up the path.

"That sky looks set to send down a blizzard," the Gaffer complains. "See how the clouds are louring? Even if I couldn't see, my old bones are telling me we're in for a snow. Don't 'ee dawdle." He rubs his gnarled hands together and watches anxiously as Sam goes back and forth till the rickety old woodbox is full. The Gaffer tends the door for Sam, helping all he may, for all that the pain and stiffness in his joints has to be terrible bad what with the cold of winter coming on.

"I ain't going to dawdle; I've got to get up to Bag End and put the supper on, and there's wood to bring in there, too, for I cooked a bit this morning, and left some of the fires lit in case he came home while I was gone the day." Sam hurries himself a bit more. He wants to be up the Hill before it gets dark or before it starts to snow in earnest, whichever comes first.

The Gaffer watches him piling the wood high in their dilapidated wood-box. "That's the trouble with all them fireplaces the Quality has to have," he grouses a bit. "'Ee can't keep up with 'em all, I daresay." He falls silent, his lined face set in a brooding expression. Sam just gives a grunt and feeds the fire with a last stick or two that won't stay stacked on top of the pile.

"I reckon some of that is for the Master." Gaffer nods to the parcels, which sit near the door.

"I'll sort it out." Sam matches word to deed and hoists his basket again after handing Marigold the goods he carried for May. She scampers off to the kitchen nook with them. Sam shifts his feet uncomfortably; he still isn't quite used to saying his Gaffer goodnight and going off to sleep under another roof-- especially considering what the Gaffer must think him and Mr. Frodo get up to of a night, and no matter that it ain't true-- yet.

"We're settled for the storm, I reckon." Gaffer fumbles in his weskit for his pipe. "Which is more than I can say for that Master of yours, I'll warrant!"

"He will be by nightfall." Sam still hesitates, wishing there was something he could say to bridge the gulf between him and his old dad, to let the Gaffer know he's happy up at Bag End with Mr. Frodo.

"Himself will still be fretting over Mr. Bilbo, I expect." The Gaffer turns a piercing eye on Sam, who sighs and nods agreement. "Well, 'ee best tell him I said that old hobbit's not one to be caught short out in the weather, not Mr. Bilbo Baggins!" Gaffer nods, decisive. "If I know him and his luck (and I worked for him all my life, so I reckon I do), he's found a nice hearth to warm his toes by, and a good host to do right by him with a bit of supper. He's doing a sight better than we are this winter's night, I'll warrant!"

Sam's eyes prickle with affectionate tears. "I daresay you're right, Dad," he murmurs. "But Mr. Frodo won't be settled in his mind until he knows the truth of it with his own eyes, seemingly."

The Gaffer shakes his head. "Himself won't bide content here forever in any case, I'm thinking." His voice goes gruff. "Took and Baggins and Brandybuck blood, all three? That don't make for a nice settled hobbit. I'm thinking he might have gone with Mr. Bilbo if not for 'ee. I reckon 'ee don't need the likes of me to be tellin' 'ee that, neither."

Sam nods, biting his lip and looking anywhere but his Gaffer's face. "He won't never go alone, if he goes. I'll go with him, if I have to track him till I catch him up."

"And that's something I don't need tellin' on my own account," his Gaffer answers him wryly. "All this prattle ain't tending the Master, Sam. Get 'ee gone up the Hill." The Gaffer scowls a bit, flapping his hands, and Sam gives him a wry little half-smile, grateful for the scolding.

"Goodnight. If you need anything, just give a shout." Sam swallows hard and leaves without no more talk, tucking his head down between his shoulders like a turtle and trudging up the Hill. The light is already failing behind the thick-layered clouds for all that it's only four o'clock, and the snow falls thicker, the flakes heavy and wet.

Still, it isn't the weather that slows Sam's steps as he nears the smial. There's somewhat else that kept him passing words with his father while the storm gathered, and he knows it. It was his own nerves over what's set to happen. Never mind that he wants it-- will Mr. Frodo have changed his mind? And will Sam know what to do, and do it proper? Here it is getting on towards Yule. Mr. Bilbo's been gone since September, but aside from a few kisses on their thwarted walking holiday, Mr. Frodo hasn't done aught with Sam at all.

Mayhap Mr. Frodo's grieving after Mr. Bilbo is done, now that he's stirred out a bit, but what if his melancholy comes back now that he's back at Bag End? What if that's what kept him in Tuckborough so long, not just seeing to Mallow's affairs?

It will be a sad holiday in Hobbiton indeed if the Master of Bag End doesn't take his proper place in the festivities, and Sam has a mind not to let it happen-- and more, he knows now just what to do, if only he can bring himself to dare.

He swallows hard, looking on up the Hill towards Bag End, hoping he has the courage that is needed. Only the kitchen window shows a light; Mr. Frodo's stomach has probably only just reminded him he's missed his tea, and finally stirred him out to put the kettle on for himself.

A creak of handbrake and the clop of hooves stirs Sam from his thoughts, and he steps out of the Road to let a light trap pass on its homeward journey, watching the pony blow clouds of steam out through its nostrils. Only the driver's eyes are visible over his muffler, but Sam waves anyway, and receives a mittened wave in return.

No point in delaying any further, not out here on the Road, nor even once he gets back up to Bag End. Time's wasting. He has to believe Mr. Frodo will still mean what he said he wanted to happen once he came back.

Sam hastens up the Hill and goes 'round to let himself in the back way, trying not to feel a pang of sadness as he walks through the garden, now bare of leaf and blossom. There are a few cold-weather crops still bearing, greens in particular, but this snow will most likely bring a hard freeze and finish them.

Sam quickly goes inside and patters up the hall; coming to the kitchen, he blinks with surprise and pleasure. Mr. Frodo is up to his elbows in flour, the first time he's cooked since Mr. Bilbo left, and there's meat and onions browning in a pan over the stove, and a smell of savoury things in the air.

"There you are." Frodo's cheeks are flushed with the exertion of his labour. "The fire was lit when I came in, but there was no sign of you in spite of the snow. I've been worried."

"No need to worry," Sam says stoutly, setting his parcels down. His heart hammers in his chest; Mr. Frodo's voice is calm and familiar, so normal it almost seems his master has never been away. He sorts through his purchases and takes a load into the near cellar, raising his voice to be heard. "It won't start to pile up for a while yet. If you're of a mind to finish the supper, I'll just go out and bring in wood, and pick the last of the winter greens."

"I was hoping you'd come back in time to do that. I've got a pot ready," Frodo answers.

"Then I'll fetch them in first." Sam finishes putting away his purchases and makes good on his word, heading out to the garden. The earth is starting to freeze, still a bit mushy under his feet, but with a bite of frost hardening the top layer of it and putting a skim of ice over any standing water. He busies himself quickly, not bothering with mittens, warming his hands from time to time under his arms. By the time he reaches the final row he wishes he'd brought a lantern, but he can work well enough by feel to get the last of them.

When he finishes, he hurries back into the smial, puffing and blowing, and carries the greens in to Frodo, who frowns at his dirty, red, chill-stiffened fingers, but takes the greens and puts them in a basin to rinse without comment.

Sam warms his chilly hands for a moment over the fire, then takes his mittens and a lantern as he goes out with the wood basket. There is snow enough now that he leaves tracks across the yard. It makes him think of a trick he's heard tales of from the Fell Winter: how hobbits tied a rope between their holes and their woodsheds so they wouldn't lose themselves feeding the fire and wander off in the blowing snow. There's some of his Uncle Andy's best rope hanging in the shed, a gift from Anson when they parted, but Sam doesn't reckon this storm will be bad enough to need it.

It takes half a dozen trips to fill all the woodboxes in the bedrooms and the parlours, and then four more for the kitchen, but he heaps every one as high as it will hold.

"Sam, don't you think that's enough wood?" Mr. Frodo pinches the crusts to seal around the top of his meat pies, eyeing Sam with some surprise as he works to balance the last load, creating a stack near twice as tall as the woodbox itself.

"I reckon it is and more, but I wouldn't like a storm to blow up and catch us without enough." Sam shrugs, a little sheepish, knowing he's just been working to keep himself from fretting. He takes the empty wood basket to its place in one of the cellars. Then he comes out to hang his wet coat and his hat and muffler to dry in his room. The meat pies smell so good his mouth waters; they won't have to be in the oven long, since the centers were already hot when Mr. Frodo put them together: just long enough to bake up the crust.

"Come and sit down to supper," his master calls before Sam can do more than start to fidget and look about for more work to do.

Reminded that Mr. Frodo has spent the afternoon doing a part of Sam's own job while Sam himself dallied at the market, Sam comes in to the kitchen with his head down, feeling a bit shy. "Let me help with getting that up, sir." The table is already set, and wine poured.

"No, just wash up and sit down," Mr. Frodo commands, pouring most of the water off the boiled taters into the basin and raising a cloud of steam, and Sam does, heartened by his master's show of spirit. A bit of Yuletide cheer seems to have caught Mr. Frodo at last, and he's cooked enough for a feast.

They fill their plates right from the stove, with greens and taters and peas and meat pies hot out of the oven. It ain't strictly polite, and it fair makes Sam blush. He don't say naught, though, for after these past months, he knows how Mr. Frodo hates having all the fuss of a fancy banquet set at every mealtime. Instead they sit down at the kitchen table, just the two of them with their heads together as cozy as you please, and begin to eat.

"How is Mistress Mallow?" Sam ventures when they are settled, cutting a bite from his juicy meat pasty with the side of his fork.

Frodo sighs. "She's well, though I don't suppose she's content with her lot. Thain Ferumbras lined up a marriage for her before we arrived, just as she expected. A Bracegirdle cousin-- a connexion of Lobelia's. A very hasty job, too." Frodo hesitates, looking at Sam, and then seems to make up his mind to continue, speaking quietly. "He was more than twice her age, with a reputation for having a heavy hand if a lass displeased him."

Sam clucks dismay in his throat; Frodo pours himself a glass of wine and swirls it, scenting its flavour. "It took me a fortnight to talk Ferumbras around. And Paladin-- he's set to be the next Thain, you mark my words; Ferumbras is grooming him for it. Chalcedony was right about how he's turned into a bit of a toady, though most of that's Eglantine's doing, I think. And Chalcedony--" he paused again, looking into his plate, rueful. "She didn't help her cause, I'm afraid. In the end, she gamed so many lads and husbands from Great Smials that Eglantine stepped in. She made Paladin take my side of the matter just to put an end to the visit."

Frodo pauses to take a bite and chew. "Ferumbras didn't take too well to Paladin acting the upstart, I'm afraid. But Eglantine was desperate. I rather think she may have been afraid Chalcedony would start on Paladin next."

"Aye," Sam says softly, well aware that Frodo would not discuss family matters in detail with a mere servant. His heart races with pride even as it fills with pity for Mallow. "She might even go after young Master Pippin, if she thought of it."

"She did," Frodo murmurs ruefully, eyes on his plate. "Though I don't believe Eglantine knows she tried it. Things would have been far easier all around if Anson wanted to court her, I'm afraid." He shakes his head. "I warned Pippin about the dangers of becoming a father, should he find he has a taste for her sort of gaming." He looks up at Sam, his expression wry.

Sam lets a whistle escape through his teeth. "It sounds like you've had a bad fortnight of it, sir."

"I won't say I wasn't glad to see Mallow go." Frodo sets his wine down, seeming satisfied with the bouquet, then notices Sam hasn't helped himself, and pours a glass for him. "She's gone down to the South Farthing, where she isn't well-known, to try her chances finding another place as a tumbler. She didn't want to go back to the Ropers, and I convinced her not to try her luck in parts east. They've no need for her at Buckland." Frodo smiles suddenly. "That reminds me of happier matters, Sam. When I came in, I found a letter waiting in the post from Bree."

Sam blushes; valet he might be, but he hasn't had the cheek to handle his master's mail. He's been putting the little bundles of letters on to Frodo's desk with their twine untouched.

"Bilbo wrote to me at last. He means to winter in Rivendell." Frodo's eyes shine, and he smiles at Sam, sunny and warm as a summer dawn.

Sam feels his own smile rising readily in answer. So that's what has the roses blooming in Mr. Frodo's cheeks! He picks up his glass, sampling the wine-- a fruity red, finer than any Gamgee has a right to.

"It's no surprise to me, sir, if I may say. My Gaffer, now, he said to me this very day he'd bet Mr. Bilbo Baggins wasn't going to weather no winter storm without his toes up on a warm hearth and a fine host working to keep him fed." Sam chuckles, content to leave the matter of Mallow behind. "I reckon you don't find any better hosts than Elves, and that's a fact."

Frodo smiles back. "No, I don't suppose you do, but I don't think I'd trade all the feasts in Rivendell for spending this Yule in the Shire."

"Do you mean to go to Great Smials, then, or Bucklebury, seeing as you had Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin here last Yule?" The thought makes Sam a bit uncomfortable, but he keeps a cheerful face on it; he'll have to weather the servants' hall at both of those places eventually, and he reckons he'll manage when the time comes, though he isn't looking forward to it.

"No, I thought I'd stay here." Mr. Frodo looks into the wine in his glass and takes a sip, then cuts a bite out of his meat pie with his fork. "I'm looking forward to a cozy winter right here in Bag End."

Sam's heart swells, thumping so hard he's afraid Mr. Frodo might hear it. "The folk in Hobbiton will like that, sir. They'll need someone to bless the Yule log, and see to the speeches." Mayhap that's all Mr. Frodo means; not that he wants the time to spend alone with Samwise.

But Frodo smiles faintly, looking out at Sam from beneath his lashes. "That isn't exactly what I'm looking forward to." Then he covers his soft expression with a sip of his wine, and Sam sits perfectly still for a moment, his bite of greens and taters half-chewed, as his mind fair flies trying to contain all the possibilities his master's words might compass.

There's no doubt what Sam has in his mind, and that's a fact. What with the things he saw back in Nobottle, he's been hard put to keep up with laundering the linens he's left in a state every morning. With Mr. Frodo back from Tuckborough and all, now....

Sam blushes and tries to cover his dithering by swallowing his bite and taking another. "These meat pies, when did you learn to make these, sir? They're better than aught I can cook," he says hastily, his mouth full. Oh, but this isn't going to be near as hard as he'd reckoned it would be. His heart soars, dizzy with hope, and he has to make himself swallow.

"I used to make them for myself back in Brandy Hall with the bits and scraps of crust the cooks would leave over, and a bit of stewed beef and some herbs I pilfered here and there. I've often made them for Bilbo on frosty nights." A faint cloud passes over Frodo's expression, then clears.

"Next time, mayhap, you'll show me how," Sam murmurs, and receives a nod and smile in return, which makes his stomach dance like it's full of butterflies.

They busy themselves with eating after that, and leave the talk for afters. Sam's stomach flutters so he can't hardly make himself sit still, though Frodo shows no sign of nerves. When they're finished, his master starts to gather the plates, but Sam insists on washing the dishes himself, carefully priming Mr. Bilbo's new-fangled pump and filling the washbasin with water from its tap and from the kettle. Mr. Frodo lingers with him in the kitchen, sipping wine and watching Sam over the table, which makes Sam's skin prickle with anticipation and more than a little heat.

Heat enough they didn't need the kitchen fire, actually, when he pauses to think of it. He's in a state by the time he reaches for his drying cloth. "You go sit down and I'll be right in," he says to his master softly. Frodo nods and takes their glasses into the parlour with the remains of the wine.

Sam finishes drying the dishes and puts them in the cupboard, then carries the dishwater out into the snow. He doesn't bother with a coat for the moment it takes to dump it, hoping the cold air will dampen some of his unseemly enthusiasm, but he knows it won't be enough. By now the snow lies drifted up to his ankles, starting to weigh down the branches of the trees, blanketing the fields and the road in a veritable land of faery-- the whole familiar landscape lost in strange shapes of soft, glimmering white. The chill of the snow between his toes makes him dance a little as he hurries inside to wipe his feet on the mat.

As he stands there making sure he won't track mud down the tiles in the hall, the stillness of the smial settles around him, and it occurs to him fully for the first time that he and Frodo are truly and completely alone, and there will be no more interruptions. His hands begin to tremble, and his stomach turns over, giddy joy mingling with something that feels a good deal like terror.

Finally he masters himself, stilling his shaking hands, and pads up the hall. Frodo has kindled the fire in the parlour and sits waiting upon the couch with a book in his lap, his wine glass in his hand. Sam's glass stands filled and waiting on the table. Sam takes a deep breath, hesitating in the kitchen and the trembling of his hands starts all over again. He finds himself struggling with the sheer wanting that's built up over a whole autumn spent in this smial alone with Frodo, never touching him but always hoping, always waiting for some sign that never came. Not just the autumn, neither, but all the long years....

"Won't you come in, Sam?" Frodo lifts his head from his book and looks into the doorway where Sam stands, all a-dither. "There's still some wine, and I've lit the fire." He sits perfectly straight and his voice is mild, but his eyes are open wide, and as they fix on Sam, he can suddenly see the nervousness his master keeps hidden-- the same sort of uncertainty and fear of rejection that plagues his own heart.

"Mr. Frodo, you ought to come see." Sam hears a hitch thick in his throat. "The snow's so beautiful and all, and it's the first of the winter."

Frodo rises and sets his glass down, tucking his lap robe about his shoulders and padding out to answer Sam's call. Sam swings the door wide so the two of them can step out onto the stoop, where they are sheltered a bit from the snowfall by the bulk of the Hill and the branches of the tall oak that arches over the smial.

Sam pulls the door to behind them and they stand in the chill waiting for their eyes to adjust so they can see; a few downy flakes settle in Mr. Frodo's hair. Now that the snow has set in the wind is dying, leaving a gentle, still white hush lying over the land. No blizzard to come after all, but a tidy snowfall, Sam reckons, already ankle-deep even where it hasn't drifted.

"My Gaffer warned for a blizzard, but the wind's died down. We'll get two hands or more, mayhap, but I'm thinking it won't blow," Sam whispers and steps up behind Mr. Frodo, his heart pounding. Now. He lets his hand fall on Mr. Frodo's shoulder and very slowly drift down his arm.

Frodo sighs, shifting to lean against Sam the slightest bit, tilting his head back to look up into the snowflakes that come swirling out of a sky like ink. "It's lovely, Sam." He speaks into the quiet, his breath a gentle puff of mist. Sam trembles, but not from the cold, yearning for the taste of that soft breath on his lips.

"It is," he whispers, almost fearing he might break the spell of peace that has settled over them. Frodo's waist is warm under his hand, and his back nestles firmly against the crook of Sam's arm. "But not so beautiful as you," he falters, hearing the awkwardness of the words, and their insufficiency, and he hides his embarrassment against Frodo's throat, which is warm and tastes faintly of salt sweat that has dried on the soft skin.

Frodo makes a low, vibrant cry that pulsates under Sam's lips. His head falls back across Sam's shoulder and he quivers in Sam's arms; Sam whimpers an answer and and licks softly at Frodo's skin, sucking little kisses along the line of Frodo's throat to his ear, his knees shaking. Frodo does not refuse him, does not push him away; he surrenders himself wholly in an instant, gasping with each touch of Sam's mouth, leaning his weight on Sam in a way that suggests his own knees are none too steady. Frodo's hand slides down and covers Sam's on his belly, clutching it against him tightly.

"Let's go in and find us a bed," Sam tugs Frodo's hips even closer, pushing forward with his own; he near faints to hear such a rumbling tone and such brazen words coming from his own throat, and he dithers again for a moment, abashed by the utter cheek of handling Frodo in such a way on the very stoop of Bag End. But the wanting is stronger than a lifetime of knowing his place, and he kisses Frodo again, mouthing lightly at his ear. "Please, sir."

"Sam," Frodo breathes, a gasp in his voice, his hand tightening over Sam's. "Oh, Sam--"

Sam answers Frodo with more kisses, and his mouth wanders to explore at the curve where Frodo's shoulder meets his neck, teeth grazing the skin lightly. Frodo makes a sound then, a soft little bleat, not even a word, and presses back against Sam, the frantic push of his hips all the answer Sam's body needs to hear. He slides both his hands to Frodo's belly, feeling the hard jut of Frodo's hipbones against his palms, and pulls Frodo tight against him, pressing forward gently, then thrusts again sturdily when Frodo whimpers and squirms. He reaches again, his left hand wandering with sure instinct until it covers Frodo's cock. The next roll of his hips pushes Frodo into his hand, and Frodo makes that sound again, that sweet little sound, and it drives Sam entirely beyond his control.

A snowflake lands on his cheek, and Sam almost fancies he can hear it sizzle as it melts; he drags Frodo back through the unlatched door and latches it again by pressing him up against it, kissing and nipping at the nape of his neck, the lap-robe falling forgotten to the floor. Some dim part of his mind is astonished by the force of what they've just unleashed-- this is nothing like kissing Jolly, nothing like soft summer heat in the fields; this is the heart of a furnace, the roar of a forge-fire fanned by a bellows, set free in wood so dry there'll be no quenching or containing it.

"Ah, tell me to stop," he hears himself gasp, and Frodo shakes his head fiercely, shoving his hips back against Sam. Sam thrusts his own hips forward in answer, hardly able to think. "Tell me if you want me to stop, or I'll have you," the words tear from Sam's throat, ragged and harsh. "Master or no, I'll--"

"Have me!" Thick and sweet like cherry cordial, the sound of Frodo's voice burns in Sam's belly, feeding his lust. "Yes, Sam!"

Somewhere in a more rational part of his mind Sam hears threads breaking and hears the ping and rattle of buttons scattering on the floor, but he doesn't care, for his hands are on Frodo's slender collarbones, and his mouth has fastened itself on Frodo's throat. A sob wracks him, unexpected, and he tastes his tears on Frodo's skin, heart so full he can't stop them, licking them off Frodo's throat and cheek even as he tugs at the shirt-buttons and the heavy velvet weskit, which is too thick for him to rip.

Frodo's fingers join his, scrabbling frantically at the cloth, and Sam suckles hard at his master's throat, impatient and needing.

"Bed," Frodo pants. "Not here, in a bed--" he pushes back and squirms, and Sam has just enough presence of mind to step back, dragging Frodo along with him. Frodo turns in Sam's arms to find his mouth, and they lock together, refusing to part as they stagger down the hall as best they can-- until they tumble against a door and hang fire, mouths wet and open, famished for kisses. Gasping, Sam wrenches himself away and near tears the knob off in his hurry to turn it.

The room happens to be Frodo's, or so Sam will later realize-- for now, he knows nothing but that Frodo is in his arms, squirming and biting at his mouth, blue eyes glazed with wanting, hair tousled and still a little wet from melting snow. The soft rug goes unnoticed underfoot as they stumble across the room, until Frodo hits something and falls on to it-- and it is the bed. He lies atop the coverlet flushed and panting, his shirt a wreck and his weskit undone; now he tears at the cloth, baring his chest to Sam's hungry eyes.

Sam blinks, some shouting voice of conscience and shyness nagging at his mind, and it shows in his eyes, seemingly, for Frodo speaks to quell it. "Yes, like this!" He all but hisses the words, arching his back, reaching for Sam, but Sam evades him and slithers out of his breeches, trembling, and jerks his shirt up over his head, near ripping the seams out of the shoulders before he can untangle himself and toss it away. Even in his haste, he doesn't dare lie down on top of his master.

Frodo doesn't share his hesitation, catching his arm and dragging him down.

Sam falls atop Frodo, crushing the air out of him in a huffing gasp, then rolls aside to let Frodo attack his skin-- Frodo is that far gone, licking and biting at every part of Sam he can reach even as he gasps to get his breath again, but something has firmed in Sam's mind. He will have this, he will have Frodo tonight, and knowing it gives him the strength he needs to control himself again.

"Easy now," he murmurs, and forces Mr. Frodo's hands to still. "I'll 'ave you, no fear, and never let you go, neither." He pushes Frodo's hands to his trousers, and together they wrestle them open and shove them down, leaving Frodo bare. Sam near purrs at the feel of all that silky skin under his palms.

Frodo sobers a bit as well, looking up into Sam's eyes and searching them; he relaxes with a sigh and lets his lashes close, but his hips push upwards against Sam's, and Sam gasps at the feel of Frodo's sleek body, hard against his own arousal.

"I won't last, not like that!" Sam husks, darting in to steal a kiss from Frodo's wet, open mouth, its tongue a flickering flame. "Put your hips against me, that's it." He turns Frodo on the bed till they lie nestled together, Sam's belly against Frodo's back, where he can keep things in hand, so to speak.

"I'll need something." He nuzzles in at Frodo's neck, mouthing the tender skin of his throat, finding the soft bright blush he sucked to the surface before and working it again, making Frodo moan. "To ease the way, like."

Frodo reaches out, blindly fumbling at his bedtable-- bless him, a little flask stands ready in the drawer, half-full. Sam chuckles in spite of himself.

Frodo groans, urgent and throaty, and Sam nuzzles again, still suckling at that sensitive spot he's discovered. "Hush, Frodo, hush..." he manages to get the words out between kissing and licking and tugging the cork out of the bottle with his teeth to coat his hand with the soft oil-- just enough, and then back in with the cork.

Frodo wails when Sam's slick palm closes around him, and Sam rumbles satisfaction, setting up a steady stroke-- slender and long, the flesh in his palm is, with plenty of sweet, soft skin to slide about the tip.

"That makes a nice handful," Sam murmurs at Frodo's ear, and feels himself blush again at his own daring. His voice shakes so that he doesn't quite dare speak again. His cheeks flame red, and he falls silent and keeps stroking, loving Frodo's sweet answering whimpers. To quiet his mouth, he give it another job to do-- working at the flesh of Mr. Frodo's throat, sucking bright blood to the surface everywhere he touches, but doing it so softly it won't hurt none in the morning, just leave a glow like a jewel once he's passed.

Frodo groans and presses his hips forward, pushing into Sam's hand, and Sam strokes him nice and steady, enjoying the rocking of Frodo's body against him and learning the taste of his skin. Not long, not long-- Sam strokes faster, making Frodo keen and writhe. He closes his fist tighter, to make Frodo gasp and shudder. Tighter still, dragging that soft skin down to bare the tip to the oil-slick stroke of his thumb, just so...

Frodo jerks so hard his head near strikes Sam on the bridge of the nose, but he doesn't scream or cry out, just lets his mouth fall open and shudders over and over, his whole body bowstring tight as he comes, warm slick pulses on Sam's hand.

Sam eases his mouth on Frodo's throat, heart trembling with pure joy and body quivering with his own need. He spreads his wet palm on Frodo's belly, feeling the slick warmth his master's pleasure has left, smoothing it over Frodo's skin-- over his flat, taut belly and his stiff little nipples. Sam and Jolly have already done this much, and learned to make one another whimper and cry out, each struggling to be the last to give in, each teasing the other with soft hot words. Mr. Frodo didn't reckon on Sam's plan to make him come first, mayhap-- not yet, but tonight that makes it all the sweeter.

"Frodo," he murmurs, easing his master onto his back and looking down on him-- his skin gleaming wet with sweat and oil and the thick glaze of his seed, his hair tousled and his mouth open, dragging in gasping gulps of air. Sam leans in and covers Frodo's nipple with his mouth, tasting the bittersalt savor of him there, then laps down across his belly and dips his tongue into Frodo's shallow navel for more. He's never tasted such a thing before, and the flavor is thick and bitter, but Frodo has given it to him, so he licks it up and then licks his own palm right where Frodo can see him do it, curling his tongue around his own fingers for the taste of his master.

Frodo moans something that might be Sam's own name, eyes hot, and tugs Sam up, mouth wicked and soft and lazy under Sam's, a soft murmur in his throat that Sam supposes must be a comment on the taste of the kiss. Sam lets himself slide easily against Frodo's sweat-slick belly, kissing him slow and deep and feeling the ache that burns in him, urgent and thrumming just under the surface of the kiss, coaxing Frodo to rouse again.

His petting hands find the bottle of oil nestled against Frodo's ribs, thankfully tight-corked, and he teases it open again, letting Frodo watch him. Frodo lies still, arms splayed languidly beside his head, eyelids heavy and mouth parted; his thighs move lazily as Sam strokes his palms along the insides of them. "Do you want me to--?"

Frodo's mouth curves upwards in welcome, and his eyes kindle with sleepy fire; in answer, he turns to his belly, one knee crooking to part his slim thighs. Sam's mouth goes dry and he licks his lips, tasting Frodo lingering there. So lovely, Frodo is: pale and smooth like the snow-blanket piling up outside, but as warm as the snow is cold, and all Sam's-- he's not about to melt away with the first touch of the Sun.

The oil is cool in Sam's palm, and he rubs it between his hands to warm it, watching golden droplets glide over his skin and fall to make gleaming circles on Frodo's back and his arse. He is so aroused his hands shake as he reaches for Frodo, curving his palms over those sweet hills and letting his thumbs trail down the narrow cleft, soft with pale down. He adds more oil then, a messy trail of it gleaming at the hollow of Frodo's back. Sam strokes the soft oil downward, fingers gliding on slippery flesh, daring to press and part his master's narrow cheeks. His thumbs brush low between them and Frodo moans, arms curling to clutch around a pillow.

Trembling, Sam strokes the soft flesh he has found, feeling it tighten and flex in response. It's one thing to see tupping done, but quite another to do such himself, and uncertainty threatens to overwhelm him. To buy time as he gathers his courage, he soothes Frodo, biting his lip to calm himself, hardly daring to press one finger inside until Frodo's hips lift, silently asking.

Sam sinks his teeth in his lip and presses, sliding in. His master is hot inside, and terribly tight in spite of the oil-- the thought flits through Sam's head that these covers will be a fright come laundry day; he flinches from the thought of May's expression-- and then he has to fix his mind on such thoughts to keep himself from coming on the spot when Mr. Frodo moans and shifts his hips, clenching tight around Sam's finger, then letting it slide deep.

"Frodo," he murmurs, moving down to press himself against his master's back, and Frodo gasps as his finger twists inside.

"Sam!" Frodo writhes, his fists clenching in the sheets. "Again, oh, please!"

He obeys, moving tentatively until Frodo groans and writhes again, hands twisting to fists in the sheets. Then Sam understands what he did the first time and tries again, pressing with more confidence and making Frodo gasp and mewl. Sweat drips in his eyes, stinging them, but he shakes it off, watching Frodo's hips begin to move with an urgent hitch-- wanting him harder and deeper.

"Frodo, love--!" Sam kisses his master's shoulder and presses in a second hesitant finger, which makes Frodo lurch and struggle to his knees, quaking, his head hanging low between his shoulders, hair half-soaked with sweat for all there isn't any fire lit in the room. His breath hisses through his teeth as he pushes his hips back, taking Sam to the third knuckle.

"Sam!" Frodo's voice chokes out sharp, and his arms quiver as though they won't hold him up. "Now, Sam, please!"

Sam pulls his fingers out, his head spinning dizzly-- he's all but forgotten to breathe!-- and wipes his hand on the tail of the sheet. He fumbles helplessly with the little bottle and near spills it as he pours its contents into his palm and slicks his flesh, which twitchs hard at the touch of his palm. Not yet, wait, he begs it silently, awkwardly slipping between Frodo's knees. His hands hesitate, then settle on the fronts of Frodo's thighs.

"Say if I hurt you," he hardly recognizes his own voice, it's so hoarse with wanting. "And I'll stop." Frodo's hips are smooth and slick as he nudges between them, probing very gently, not knowing the angle he wants.

"Sam!" Almost a sob, that word. Frodo falls forward on to the cradle of his arms, waiting.

Sam tries to press forward, but at first he can't make himself and then he slides away from his goal, miscalculating; his hands shake too badly and his throat feels tight like sobbing for fear that he might hurt Frodo. "Me dear," he breathes, and tugs at Frodo's thigh instead with his left hand, holding himself as still as he may in his right and drawing Frodo back, on to him.

Frodo moans into the pillow and helps by pushing back, whining softly as his body resists, groaning as tendons flex in Sam's arms and he keeps up the steady pull-- wicked-tight, fierce pressure building as Frodo's body yields with slow reluctance. Sweat rolls freely down Sam's forehead and his ribs, salty on his lips. He lets his head fall back, thinking desperately of the snow-- rolling in snow, filling his mouth with it, snow on his face and belly, cold--

With a lurch, Frodo's body gives way, and Sam slides past the worst of the resistance, then cries out without finding words as Frodo clenches tight around him, so tight it hurts. Dimly Sam hears Frodo moaning against his forearm and scratching at the sheets with a rough rasp of bitten nails on linen. A muscle in Sam's forearm twitches and he loosens his grip, his breath rasping in his throat, his tongue dry. "Frodo, Frodo--" the word tumbles from his lips, a low chant, and he has no idea when he began to speak.

His eyes close, red thunder roaring in his ears and pulsing behind his lids as he stares blindly through them at the lamp, struggling not to come. He battles with every ounce of his will: not to come, not to thrust, not to drive himself deep.

Then, unbelievably, Frodo moves, pushing back. Sam savages his lip, hands clenching to fists, as that vise-tight grip slides back on him, slowly letting him in. Frodo's gasps choke harsh in his throat with each slow surge and pause, and Sam's trembling hands find his back and ribs, sliding on sweat-slippery skin, trying to gentle him, but he keeps pressing steadily, his body swallowing Sam deep, until at last his hips nestle against Sam's, cradled in the crook of his body, and there is nowhere left for him to go. He moves, shifting until he is sitting up, legs spread wide over Sam's lap. He leans back for a kiss; Sam finds his mouth blindly, ignoring the awkward angle.

"Now," Frodo gasps between clenched teeth. "Take me."

Sam rocks back, hesitant, suns and stars exploding behind his closed lids, and pushes forward tentatively, but Frodo drives himself down even as Sam carefully pushes upward, and the thrust comes much harder than he means it to, ripping a sob of ecstatic anguish from him. He catches Frodo's hips instinctively, thrusting again, and Frodo meets him a second time, nearly knocking him backwards, so he braces and pushes again, strong and sure, tearing a cry from both of them, his eyes squeezing tight as the last fragments of control shatter and he plunges hard-- again, again, again, faster, his hips snapping fiercely and driving him deep, his slippery hands barely able to keep their grip on Frodo's waist.

Frodo's cries echo in the room, wild and desperate, though Sam barely hears them over the roar of his own pulse in his ears and the brilliant flare of pleasure coiling itself up to bursting deep within him, winding him tighter and tighter until it flashes like lightning and sings thunder through his nerves, shattering everything in its wake as he spends himself, slumping forward over Frodo and driving him into the mattress, their bodies wringing wet and still joined.

The world is still a few minutes later when Sam recovers control of his senses-- absolutely silent but for the shallow rasp of Frodo's breathing, which brings Sam swimming towards alertness with startling speed, his eyes blinking open.

He doesn't know how long they have taken, but the snow has stopped. Pale white light moonlight washes in through the frosted window, and Sam realizes they haven't even bothered to close the shutters nor light the fire. The air in his nostrils has a crisp, cold tang and smells of himself and Frodo.

Sam blinks at the light, shifting and feeling the stickiness between them tug at the hair on his chest and belly. He shifts to wrap them loosely in a fold of coverlet, dragging it up and drawing it over. He winces, thinking again of laundering it-- he doesn't even want to look at the mess he knows he'll find, so he lies right still again.

Mr. Frodo lies in his arms, tucked up under his chin, breathing softly. Their arms and legs are twined, and Sam's foot is asleep, but he smiles anyway at the soft glow of the moonlight in Frodo's hair, then blushes, remembering what he's done-- he fair let that get away from him, he did, talking so to Mr. Frodo and taking him so rough! He blushes harder, breath catching in his throat, hoping he hasn't hurt Mr. Frodo none, but oh, he wanted... and Mr. Frodo hadn't let him hold back none, pushing down on him like that!

Sam's arms tighten without his meaning them to, and Frodo stirs lazily. Sam winces again, curly hair caught and tugged in half a dozen places.

"There, be still," he murmurs as Frodo's lashes flutter and his eyes come open. "I've got you." He sweeps a curl back from Mr. Frodo's cheek and nuzzles against it. "You ain't hurt, are you?" His voice falls a bit, shy and worried.

Frodo's expression grows thoughtful, and he shifts his thighs, then hisses as Sam slides out. "No," he says anyway. "No more than I should be."

Sam blushes at that, disturbed to remember Mr. Frodo is so much his elder, already twenty years old when they met, and Sam just a child! Mr. Frodo had probably already done this even back then, though it makes Sam's heart ache to think it.

Frodo's hand slides across his back. "Sam?" His eyes grow dark and troubled as he gazes on Sam's expression. "You don't-- regret?"

"No!" Sam hastily stops his woolgathering. "Not a bit of it." He lets his own hands wander, then grimaces to feel sticky oil all over Mr. Frodo's back. "We've ruined this coverlet, I reckon," he ventures.

A smile blossoms on Frodo's face, mingling mischief and delight. "I don't suppose it would do to let May launder it." He shakes his head, nuzzling the tip of his nose against Sam's.

"It wouldn't, at that!" Sam finds a chuckle in his throat, and lets it free. "I'll do it meself." He trails his fingers up along Frodo's spine, and Frodo sighs with pleasure, lashes closing. "And aught else we muck up, too, I'll warrant." Sam leans in to press soft kisses at Frodo's throat, and Frodo moans, tilting his head. His arms slide around Sam, and Sam pulls him close, the slow rhythm of desire stirring him again, beginning to lap through him in gentle wavelets.

Frodo's sleepy eyes smile at him, and his chin tilts back as he draws a slow, sighing breath, arching under Sam's touch, his body like velvet against Sam's skin.

Slowly this time, carefully, they let the wanting sweep them away again together.


	74. A New Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam share a lovely morning.

Never before has Sam woken in such a wonderfully warm bed and felt his arms full of another hobbit, all warm, bare living skin, velvety and pliant and buttery soft against him. He sighs, scenting salt and musk in the soft ruff of hair that tickles his nose, burrowing to nuzzle a kiss against Frodo's nape. He is sticky and a little sore, muscles and body protesting mildly, the note of weariness only deepening his contentment.

He squints against the light, glowing through the curtains they forgot to draw, in their haste. The wind outside is carrying flakes of snow across the grey curve of the land, drifting them in a dark bow against the windowsill. A sparrow alights there for a moment, flickering shadow across the room, peering inside with one black eye before flitting away.

Frodo sighs, a luxuriant breath that borders on a moan, and his hips nestle back against Sam, rapidly bringing one particular part of Sam back from the verge of sleep. Sam is so content he could all but purr, thrusting lazily against his master's hips. They are stuck together and both they and the bed are a dreadful mess; there will have to be fires lit and water warmed for baths, and the linens will have to be changed. Perhaps they will even bathe in the same tub, steam rising around them, skin sliding on skin, wet and slippery with soap....

Sam reaches forward and gently takes Frodo in hand, his master's cock awake just as his own is, a comfortable size and shape, filling his palm. He strokes, slow and lazy, and Frodo writhes just as slowly, a low groan on his lips.

"Morning, sir," Sam murmurs against skin that tastes both sweet and salt, like the best honey. He runs his tongue over Frodo's nape, making him shiver.

"Mmmmm...." It's almost articulate, the sound, but not quite. Frodo's legs shift and Sam slides between them, the change unexpected but exquisite, and after a moment of surprise he thrusts leisurely against the pressure of Frodo's slim thighs, rumbling soft approval. He tightens his grip on Frodo and pulls just a little faster.

Frodo moans again, but then his belly growls, and Sam's echoes it even louder. Frodo laughs, and the mood is spoiled; Sam feels laughter of his own bubbling up from his throat, sheer joy behind it. Why should they hurry? They've all the time anyone could ask for.

"Here, now, I'm being a bad valet, letting the master stay abed till he starves." Sam breathes in Frodo's ear, stroking its velvety rim with the tip of his nose. "Mayhap I'll be sacked." He takes his hand off Frodo and rolls away, chuckling.

Frodo groans a loud protest. "More likely you'll be sacked for letting him die of frustration," he says, but his tone is light. His stomach growls again, belying his words.

"Scones and honey for you then, quick as may be," Sam tells him sternly. "And while the fire readies, I'll be filling the copper for a bath."

"You do that, then, and I'll see to the kitchen fire." Frodo's tone is firm. "The faster we work, the faster we'll eat, and then...." He tilts his head to the side, and his curls fall across his throat, and he looks up at Sam through the fringe of his lashes. "I've a mind to laze about in bed all day, to rest after my journey."

"Then I'll have to see to it you don't lack for summat to think about while you rest," Sam tells him gravely. "I wouldn't want you to suffer for lack of aught."

Frodo laughs and dives for his dressing gown, a flash of pale sleek skin in the dim room. "Get wrapped up, or you'll die of chill," he tells Sam, and Sam darts across the frigid hall in to his own room, where a fire stands laid on the hearth, unlit. He hasn't got a nice tidy dressing gown like Mr. Frodo, so he shoulders into breeches and a shirt, and tops it off with a woolen weskit, teeth chattering. He scolds himself aloud as he dresses.

"Drat you for a ninnyhammer, Sam Gamgee; Bag End could come to rack and ruin for all of you thinking with your cock-robin and not your head. Here's the fires not banked and not laid, and the shutters not drawn neither. It'll take a day or more to get the smial cozy again, and what were you left behind for if not to keep such from happening?"

"To welcome the master home properly, of course," Frodo tosses in as he passes through the hall. "Which you did, if you remember." His voice vanishes down the hall with the pat of his feet, and Sam can hear him clattering about in the kitchen.

He finishes struggling with his buttons and goes off to the wash-room, where he pumps up water enough to fill the copper and lights the fire he left ready-laid under it, then the fires in the hearths on the other three walls. He hauls the wash-tub near to the fire and sets towels out on a warming-rack, then puts up bathing-screens to channel and hold in the warm air as much as may be.

"Almost ready?" Frodo taps at the door. "The tea is on."

Sam twitches a towel straight and straightens his back. "Coming, sir." He trots out, to find that not only does Frodo have the teakettle over the fire, but he's cut slices from a fat round loaf of bread and laid them out on the toasting rack. His master is standing at the kitchen window, looking out at the soft white snow that blankets the Shire, pure and unspoiled as yet by cart-tracks and footprints, lying in a clean smooth veil across the yard and the Road. He opens the window as Sam watches and tosses out yesterday's crusts for the birds, which swoop down, chattering, to peck at them the moment he closes the window.

Sam smiles, nudging the butter-pot a little closer to the fire, and Frodo comes to him. Together, they brush melted butter over the bread for toast. "There's jam and sausages, if you don't want to wait for scones," he murmurs, stepping up behind Frodo's back.

Sam feels a sudden strange pang of shy uncertainty, but Frodo smiles and brushes against him lazily as he turns to pass Sam on his way to the pantry. "I think we'll make do with toast this morning, Sam. Is there milk in the cool pantry? Good; I'll bring us each a mug." He goes.

With that, Sam realizes what's troubling him: Mr. Frodo is doing Sam's own chores, and it don't feel right. Mr. Frodo ought to be abed while Sam sees to this.

He takes the mugs from Frodo and puts them on the table, turning to find Frodo staring at him with a faint line pinched between his brows.

"What's wrong?"

"Naught," Sam shifts his feet uncomfortably, aware that it's very nearly a lie. "Or rather, naught except you going about doing for yourself what I ought to be doing, by rights."

Frodo looks soberly at Sam. "You know I've never stood on ceremony, Sam, and I certainly won't start now."

"But you don't have to." Sam waves a hand helplessly, not knowing how to put his thought into proper words.

"But I will," Frodo says, serious, his eyes level and steady. "It wouldn't be right for me to lie about the whole day long letting you work for us both and never lifting a finger for myself. If nothing else, I'd grow as broad a bottom as my cousin Fredegar."

"And if you did," Sam says, equally steady, "I'd love you none the less for it."

"Sam!" Frodo laughs, sounding a little baffled. "That's beside the point. I'm not going to take your job from you and give you the job of warming my bed in its place. Still, I mean to have you for my lover, not my bed-and-body slave. I may," he lets a soft smile curl the corners of his mouth, "Even do for you, from time to time, as the fancy takes me." The words fall in a way that doesn't seem to mean mere kitchen-work.

"I'd like that," Sam says gruffly, meaning the words both ways, "But only if you let me do for you like I ought, seeing as it's been my joy since I was a lad, and my main reason for getting up in the morning for as long back as I like to remember."

Frodo steps forward and lays his hand against Sam's cheek; his fingers are trembling. "And the sight of your smile has been mine," he says, so soft Sam can hardly hear him.

Sam's heart melts and his belly warms; he can't think to keep arguing in the face of such sweetness. Mr. Frodo leans in, slow and hesitant, and Sam's lips part for him, but they've barely tasted each other when the kettle sputters and whistles for attention.

"I'll get it," Sam says, kissing Frodo's lips lightly before stepping back. "Sit down and ready your cup."

Frodo obeys, pulling the sugar bowl towards his place. Sam goes to the kettle, wraps the wire handle in a cloth, and pours the tea, setting the kettle on the table while Frodo mixes milk and a bit of sugar in his cup. Though their eyes don't meet, Sam feels the warm certainty that his Frodo loves him, even though they don't quite understand each other sometimes.

As Frodo drinks his tea and cares for laying the table, Sam busies himself with the cooking-- sausages and eggs and bacon to go with the toast, which Frodo cut far too early to put on the fire right away, if they're to have aught else when they eat it. When the work is done, Sam turns to the table, and finds that Frodo has set their places-- Sam's across from his own, the head of the table standing empty. "Sit with me, Sam," Frodo smiles, and Sam comes over to serve up the food right on to their plates, then puts the pan in the sink and takes his seat.

They don't speak much during breakfast, eating in quiet contentment, passing the jam jar and butter dish back and forth between them until their plates are polished clean. Sam Frodo takes up a cloth and dries the dishes as Sam washes them.

"The water should be hot in the wash-room by now," Frodo says presently, stretching his shoulders.

"Aye." Sam smiles. "You first, and then I'll use the water."

"Neither of us first." Frodo's smile turns wicked. "Both at once will be much better, don't you think?"

Sam's knees go weak from the heat in Frodo's look; he reaches to steady himself at the sink. "Aye," he manages, through a throat suddenly dry with desire.

"Come along, then." Frodo starts down the hall and Sam trots obediently in his wake. The morning light filters dimly through the hall from the frost-glazed panes of the front door window, and Frodo seems almost a ghost in front of him, gliding rather than walking, insubstantial. Sam is seized by a moment's desire to dart forward and try to capture him, hold him there; for a moment he nearly believes the night before, and their morning of toast and sausages by the fire after, to be a phantom of his imagination, as beautiful as it is unreal.

And then they are inside the bathing room, and Frodo smiles shyly at Sam over his shoulder, his fair skin and dark curls kissed golden by firelight. All Sam can do in response is stand and watch, heart pounding, as Frodo unties the belt of his dressing-gown and lets it slide off his slender shoulders. Sam fills his mind with the slow glide of the cloth and the soft, glowing skin it reveals.

It takes an effort to start his feet moving and fetch pails of hot water to pour in to the tub, but he does it at length when Frodo turns his head away, a little smile dancing on his lips, a pink flush on his cheeks.

In a few minutes the tub is filled and Sam stands clumsily for a moment when he is done, waiting for his master to enter the water-- until he realizes Frodo is watching, waiting for the sight of him in turn. He feels his cheeks go crimson, but fair is fair, so he undresses shyly and climbs in at Frodo's gesture, a little abashed. The water is piping hot, meant for Frodo himself. He eases in gingerly, unaccustomed to such luxury on his own account.

Frodo follows him, and kneels between Sam's ankles, water plashing softly about his legs. Sam swallows hard, looking at his master. Water droplets gleam on Frodo's waist and thighs; the rising steam curls his hair in tendrils about his face and throat.

There isn't proper room for two to lie at ease in the tub, but Sam doesn't mind. The water is already soaking away aches he didn't even know he had, sinking into his muscles when Frodo's hands settle on his knees and slide upwards.

Frodo's hands find the washing-cloth and the bit of soap Sam has set out for them; without a word he soaps the cloth and begins at Sam's feet, lathering them gently and stroking them clean with the cloth.

Sam murmurs something that isn't quite a word-- neither protest nor approval; more a note of surprise and pleasure. Frodo looks up into Sam's face, his eyes gentle but simmering with a desire as pure and clear as his pale skin. "You're beautiful," he says, impossibly, and Sam colours, looking away, abashed.

"No," Frodo says, voice intense. "Look at me."

His voice draws Sam's eyes, and Sam watches as Frodo's hands slide along his calves, thumbs tracing the curve and channel of muscles and sinews to Sam's knee. "I've wanted to touch you this way ever since you were caught in the fire..." his voice trails away, and his hands move gently, fingers stroking the soft skin behind Sam's knees.

Frodo moves forward, his narrow wet body fitting between Sam's calves, and his hands gently journey along Sam's thighs, soaping and rinsing. Sam watches Frodo's face, caught and held by the beat of his pulse in his throat. Frodo doesn't hurry, hands exploring methodically, and Sam's blush darkens as Frodo's hands move to his waist and bathe him with thorough care, one part at a time.

His master's lips part in a soft-eyed expression of pleasure, and Sam can barely contain the joy that soars through him at the absorbed look of wonder on Frodo's face as he handles Sam so very tenderly. Sam feels himself fill and swell in Frodo's hands, and sits back, letting that part of him speak his feelings with its glad response. The slide of the soap and the rough scratch of the cloth on him are wonderful; the hot water soaks a blissful melting languor into his bones.

Frodo moves forward, between Sam's knees and his thighs; he reaches around and soaps Sam's back and his hips as carefully as the rest of him, moving with slow deliberation. Sam slides his arms around Frodo's narrow body, feeling how his master's skin is pebbled with chill from the water drying off its exposed surface. He frowns and moves to clasp Frodo close, using arms and hands to sluice hot water down his master's spine. Frodo murmurs with pleasure, his lean chest resting against Sam's, and his hands travel across Sam's back, soap and cloth in turn.

Sam nuzzles at Frodo's throat, unable to help himself, tasting sweat in the hollow of his collarbone, licking to follow its traces up to the lobe of Frodo's ear.

His master is persistent, soaping and rinsing Sam's arms and his throat, pushing himself back far enough to do so. Sam rumbles a low protest at the loss of Frodo's skin, but Frodo only smiles at him and pulls away, then hands Sam the cloth and the soap and turns his body, nestling between Sam's legs, sliding back until his shoulders touch Sam's chest.

Sam understands the silent request and lathers the cloth slowly, feeling Frodo settle against him. The weight of his head rests against Sam's neck and shoulder, curls tickling Sam's wet skin. He inhales and exhales, his warm, living presence filling Sam's arms. Sam buries his face against Frodo's curls, fierce tenderness filling him. He brushes the cloth against Frodo's body, feeling somehow that Frodo is like a living sculpture in his arms-- a poem made flesh, a perfect work of the maker's art.

Words of love flow from his lips as he slides the cloth over Frodo's body-- ribs and slim arms, soft belly and blushing nipples. Narrow hips and thighs. He tends Frodo very carefully all over, rinsing away the sweat of their lovemaking until he glows all over like mother-of-pearl. Then, at last, he returns to Frodo's belly and the beautiful swell of flesh at its base, which has hardened and pushed through the surface of the water, awaiting Sam's hand.

Frodo moans, very soft and vibrant, and Sam closes his hand around that part of his master, stroking slowly. He gathers Frodo up in both hands, pressing soft, reverent kisses against his his shoulder and throat, humbled anew by the pure and simple trust of this, of Frodo's bare body nestled against him.

Frodo's hips lift, restless, and Sam curls one arm around his belly to steady him. "There now, me dear." He flushes at the clumsiness of the endearment, but it is the only speech he knows, unfit though it is to say what he feels.

Frodo moans in answer, and Sam slides one thumb across the rosy tip of his flesh. Frodo shudders in his arms, straining, and Sam smiles, giving him long, slow strokes, tightening his hand firmly, for the hard calluses of his palms are eased by the soap. Frodo squirms, mouth open, the curve of his pink lips gleaming wet when his tongue darts out to lick them. Sam strokes faster, making sure to touch the sweet spot just below the crown of it, which makes Frodo gasp.

His muscles are taut, his body almost wiry in Sam's arms, stronger than the looks of its fragile porcelain skin would ever tell. Sam tightens his hand again and Frodo keens, his body straining against Sam's arm as he struggles to thrust into Sam's grasp. Sam obliges him, speeding again, moving quickly now, the heel of his hand making a rustle and splash in the water with each stroke.

Frodo throttles little desperate sounds in his throat, seeming to try not to cry out, but can't quite stifle them, and Sam loves it-- loves the muffled noises he can draw from his master. He moves his hand just a little at the top of one stroke, and Frodo rewards him, lips parting in a cry; Sam does it again and Frodo's head falls back across his shoulder, his body shuddering as it tries to lift.

Sam loosens his grip on his master's shaft again and shortens his stroke, then reaches to take Frodo's nipple between his thumb and forefinger, twisting lightly. Frodo yelps and his thighs quiver; Sam moves faster still and tightens his fingertips sharp and quick on Frodo's nipple, reckoning Frodo needs just a little push to go over the edge. He gives a desperate shout, convulsing in Sam's arms, his whole body surging as he comes, spilling over Sam's hand and on to Sam's thigh.

He sinks back against Sam, trembling, his breath coming fast in his narrow chest, and Sam soothes him, murmuring nonsense into his ear. Sam reaches with one hand for a pail of rinse water he left near the tub, manages to fumble it up and spill the fresh, hot water in with them. Frodo sighs and shifts, half-turning so that his cheek is against Sam's chest. "So good to me," he murmurs. "And now I can be good to you, too...."

"You always are," Sam murmurs, but Frodo just shakes his head and turns around again, kneeling. He leans forward, palms on Sam's chest, and kisses him, gently nipping at Sam's lip, but not lingering there-- he works his way downward, licking and biting gently, pausing and sucking a pink mark on to Sam's skin at the place where his neck becomes his shoulder, his mouth so deft and clever Sam feels nothing but pleasure as the bruise forms there.

Then his mouth slides down to cover Sam's nipple, and Sam cries out, his body jerking so hard the water sloshes in the tub, threatening to go over the rim. Frodo doesn't back away, suckling harder, and bites down, making Sam gasp, the breath hissing between his teeth. It's a pretty vengeance, the sensation so sharp with pleasure it's nearly unbearable; it drives a spike of heat straight to Sam's cock, which juts against Frodo's belly, urgent and mindless. Frodo moves his mouth, seals it over Sam's nipple and bites again, and Sam yelps, hands closing to fists; his toes curl and he struggles not to buck Frodo right off him. Then Frodo licks his nipple, soothing it, his eyes bright with laughter as he gazes up into Sam's face.

Sam understands anew how far he is out of his depth here, with this beautiful creature he has captured-- blissfully, wonderfully so. He reaches, cradling Frodo's cheek in the hollow of his palm, and Frodo turns his face to press a kiss there, tongue darting against Sam's skin.

And then Frodo smiles, a glint in his eyes, and the water ripples as he slides back.

Sam holds his breath, guessing what Frodo means to do next; he bites his lip, the tightness in his chest near to choking him as he watches Frodo lower his head. His breath is cool on the tip of Sam's cock at first, but then his tongue is like a flame flickering around Sam, and his mouth is hot and tight as it slides down.

Sam gasps, sobbing for breath, his knuckles going white on the lip of the tub. Frodo's tongue moves on him, slick and skillful, its tip stroking just at the sweet spot below the crown; Sam's hips jerk helplessly and his breath rasps in his chest. Frodo's cheeks hollow, and the sensation is more than Sam can bear; he lets his head fall back against the tub and moans. Frodo hums softly, shivering pleasure all the way to Sam's spine; he slides his mouth lower, and Sam keeps expecting it to stop, but it doesn't, gliding down inch by inch until Sam is wholly sheathed.

Sam keens, struggling with himself-- his hips want to thrust hard and fast, as they did the previous night when he was buried inside his beautiful master, but he knows he mustn't. He forces his lids open and gazes down his body to where Frodo's eyes await him, warm and bright; the sight makes Sam's heart turn over with tenderness and passion.

Then Frodo moves-- back up along the shaft, so slow it's nearly an agony, and back down again all the way, fast. Sam clenches his teeth and bites back a reverent curse. His hands creep forward and knot in Frodo's hair; he tries not to use his grip to force Frodo, not wanting to hurt him but the sensations coursing through him are too much to be borne, and he knows he's clutching too tightly.

Frodo swallows around him, humming, and slides up again, his tongue ripples delightfully, wicked and skilled. Sam pushes up without thinking, and Frodo rides the motion, sinking back down. His lips are stretched taut around Sam's girth, coral-pink and shiny; his lashes lie against his cheeks now, two coal-dark fans. He pulls at Sam's hips, urging him to thrust, and Sam does, helpless not to; he fills Frodo's mouth and then his throat, pressing in.

Then he feels Frodo's finger teasing at him, and he gasps, his mouth falling open on a startled cry; Frodo's finger is soapy-slick and it is deep inside him before he can fully realize his startlement.

"Oh," Sam gasps, half raising his body with surprise, but Frodo has him firmly, and between finger and mouth, Sam is caught.

He feels Frodo's finger move inside him, crooking, touching something unexpected that fairly glows with pleasure. Sam whines, frantic, his hips twisting in the water. Frodo rises and falls, sucking hard, and his finger crooks again and inside Sam, igniting glowing fire-brands of pleasure that shoot through his whole body, burning themselves out in his fingertips and his toes.

Helpless, Sam shatters, wailing to the rafters, his whole body spasming so hard water splashes out of the tub and onto the stone flags.

When he opens his eyes at last, Frodo is kneeling over him, licking his smiling lips; his mouth is dark and curves upward with satisfaction. He crawls forward, settling against Sam's chest, and kisses Sam, his mouth rich and exotic with the strong hint of Sam's own taste. His cock is hard against Sam's belly, and Sam curls his hand lazily around it, amazed that Frodo found so much pleasure in sucking him.

He kisses Frodo again and again, sweeping his tongue through Frodo's mouth, fondling him with lazy strokes, loving the feel of silky-skinned warmth hard inside his palm. A jumble of passionate images tumble through his head-- half-formed dreams of things he wants to do to Frodo, and of things he wants Frodo to do to him.

He can see them lying here, positions reversed, him wiping his own mouth before straightening to kiss Frodo. Or mayhap they're lying on the parlour sofa before the fire, Frodo asleep with his head on Sam's knee. Or Frodo might be smiling at Sam through the kitchen window while Sam prunes the roses. Or Sam could steal a kiss while Frodo is writing letters, or even interrupt Frodo at his reading, setting the tea things down and darting under Frodo's desk in the library. Or Sam might serve Frodo breakfast in bed, or bath his brow when he is sick, or sit with him on a midsummer's day in quiet contentment, or spend a long winter's night kissing every inch of his slim body. Sam will make love to him in a thousand different ways, whether they be quick and urgent or warm and slow.

As he drowses, a million beautiful fragments of hope for the future dance in a mosaic in Sam's mind; Frodo's warm smile follows him through them all. In each one, Sam has his beautiful master there with him to love and care for, even after their hair has turned to silver, and after Frodo's face grows lined and worn, an image of wisdom and love in his mind's eye.

"We'll have to get out of here before we freeze," Sam murmurs presently, but his bones feel like they've turned to jelly, and even the cooling water around them isn't enough to move him yet. He squeezes Frodo lightly, and Frodo draws a slow, luxuriant breath, nestling against him.

"The bed will be warmer," he agrees, but they lie there in the tub for a while anyhow, cherishing the lassitude of aftermath, their warm bodies a shelter against the cooling water.

"And softer, I'll warrant," Sam murmurs at length, pinned against the lip of the tub by his own weight and Frodo's both. "I want you to show me how to do what you just did for me...." he says, lifting his hand to stroke Frodo's back, feeling his ribs and spine prominent underneath the velvet-soft skin. "Teach me to do that for you. Teach me everything."

"I will," Frodo murmurs, and nuzzles a kiss against Sam's throat. "And you'll teach me. But have patience." He raises laughing eyes to Sam, his sweet smile dazzling in its happiness. "We've a lifetime for the learning."


	75. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam trims the verge.

Some mornings are so beautiful, so rich, so clear and golden and bright, that the joy of them is so keen it's near to pain. Sam can tell it'll be just such a day when he rises from his little room and steps into his breeches; the morning fair hums for him to be out in it and greet the rising Sun.

Mr. Gandalf's snoring is so loud he can hear it in the hall, so he tiptoes about his work, passing a fond thought for Mr. Frodo, who lies abed alone to keep the appearance of propriety. It's not fooling nobody, Sam expects, seeing as he was the one who took that Elvish love-poem to Mr. Gandalf long ago, hoping the wizard would tell him its meaning back when Mr. Frodo first gave it to him. Sam reckons Gandalf knows all there is to be known of him and Mr. Frodo if there's anyone in Middle Earth who does. But Mr. Frodo thought it best, and Sam wants nothing more than to please his master.

Gandalf and Mr. Frodo stayed up late last night, in close talk like they do sometimes, long after Sam was abed. Sam thinks it's good to see the old wizard come again after so long-- near nine years it's been, if he's reckoning right. They'd nearly given him up, and if it hadn't been for knowing he was a wizard, Sam would have wondered if he hadn't come to a bad end wandering about the Wild-- all Mr. Merry's worries would have come to naught, if he had.

But now he's here again, and with plenty of years past for him and Mr. Frodo to catch up on. Mr. Frodo lit up as bright as Sam could ask for when he let Mr. Gandalf in; he come right up out of his chair and ran to meet Gandalf in the door. They stayed up into the wee hours, sharing wine and tales; Mr. Frodo has missed old Mr. Gandalf's news about things faraway, Elves and Men and Dwarves and Mr. Bilbo and all. It was after middle-night before Sam yawned until his jaws creaked and went away to bed; once they passed beyond Elves, he was fair lost in all their talk, and it didn't sound as if Mr. Gandalf's come to take Mr. Frodo off adventuring, nohow, the way Mr. Merry always says he may.

Not that Sam would mind as much as he might, if Mr. Gandalf has come to take them off to see the Elves. Over all the years, that's one wish Sam's never had come true, and it's one that's never died in his breast. However, he's wise enough to know that with elves comes dragons, so to speak, and if it means trouble, then he don't suppose he needs none of what his old dad would call "that tweenage nonsense" no more anyhow. Still, he'd dearly love to see an Elf somehow, someday. But he knows he don't have to. He's got all he needs right here in the Shire-- right here in Bag End, and that's a fact, what with the kitchen garden and all. If he never takes a step further than Hobbiton again, he'll not regret it. Let the elves come to him, if they have a mind!

He puts water on to heat, takes bread and cheese out of the cellar, and lays them out with jam and a knife and butter from the springhouse, ready to toast. Then he lights the fire in the study, where Mr. Frodo loves to sit of a morning with his books and his letters and his quill and the ink-pot. That will do for him, at least for starters. Mr. Gandalf might sleep till after elevenses, and if Mr. Frodo needs Sam's help, he'll call-- but for now Sam should be out and about, for the dawn's creeping over the horizon and the birds are singing upon the Hill like there's no tomorrow.

It's been a mild winter, and the buds are swelling fat on the trees, and bursting out in clouds of golden-green. The grass is noticing the new warmth in the Sun, sending up its tender shoots, and it won't wait another day for trimming. If Sam lets it go, he knows he'll deserve any hard words his father has for him; he'd start to think himself that he was growing too used to Mr. Frodo's soft bed and his fine-laid table!

The dew on the new grass glows like emeralds wrought with silver filigree, more beautiful than any work of hands Sam has ever seen, and cold between his toes on the way to the shed. The sun will burn it off right soon, so Sam decides there's time to sit on the chopping block and sharp up his shears so as to make the cutting go faster.

Whick, whick, whick, the stone slides easily across the edge, and it makes Sam think of the season to come-- the crocuses have already put their purple heads up for a look about, and yellow daffodils are nodding in full bloom at the edge of the lawn. Soon there will be white daisies nodding in the breeze, tangled up with vetch and the sweet peas, and then summer will be full upon the Shire, summer with cherries and apples and honey and lazy mornings spent rolling about abed, Mr. Frodo under him or over him, depending.

He puts away the whet-stone and hangs the clipping-bag over his shoulder; he may as well start the season's mulch-pile right off, for all this grass is so fine and tender it won't amount to much. He starts trimming at the bottom of the yard right up against the Road.

The Sun's warm, but there's a light south wind sighing through the branches, and it will keep the sweat off as he works. It seems the wind is bringing the Spring along with it; Sam can smell a fine fresh scent of new-turned earth that goes just right with the sharp tang of cut grass.

It takes him half the morning to work his way around the Road and get right up against the smial; by that time he hears Mr. Frodo stirring about. Sam reckons his master is satisfied with the breakfast that was left for him, so he just keeps on working. By and by Mr. Gandalf's voice rumbles out with Frodo's, somber amidst the cheery flowers of the yard. He knows he'll have to leave off soon and go in to make the nuncheon, but he'd like to finish this side of the yard first, so he keeps cutting the grass as quick as ever he can. Besides, he promised Mr. Merry he'd listen especially close if the wizard come about, and though he don't like to eavesdrop, a promise is a promise.

By and by he hears Mr. Gandalf settle in to speaking on his own; he's telling one of the old stories, one of the grand ones, and so Sam creeps a bit closer, wanting to hear clearly in spite of himself. It sounds like that one he heard Mr. Bilbo tell about Gil-Galad when he was just a lad; fine and terrible at the same time. He still can't hear quite proper, what with the wind and all, but somehow the wizard has brought Mr. Bilbo into it, so he creeps a bit closer, still cutting, putting loose handfuls of soft green grass into the burlap sack.

Now the old wizard is talking of Mr. Bilbo's ring-- and that's a thing Sam is keen to know more about, seeing as how he's only heard tell of it a few times before. Mr. Frodo has read him a bit from Mr. Bilbo's book and told Sam how Mr. Bilbo used to turn invisible, and he heard Mr. Bilbo talk of adventuring before he left. For Mr. Gandalf to bring such a thing up now is enough to make Sam anxious that his master might take it in his mind to follow after. He bites his lip as he listens; this ain't just a tale, seemingly. It's something as hits a bit closer to home than he thought when he first cast an ear, so he can't stop listening now even if he wanted. As he does, Mr. Merry's dark hints and warnings start to make a bit more sense, and his concern for Frodo seems far better-founded than Sam has thought for many a year.

He keeps his shears moving, keeps on cutting the grass-- not as he should, not all of one length right near the ground on the first cut, but just a little bit of its length at a time and all in the same place, so he can linger by the window. There's a name he knows: Mr. Bilbo dearly loved to tell of his riddling with old Gollum, but it ain't the same as the tale Frodo read to Sam from the book, and it don't sound so funny no more. With every word Sam hears, his mouth is getting more dry, and the bright fair sun, so warm and cheerful when the morning dawned, seems to cast knife-sharp shadows of menace around every blade of the grass he's cutting.

Mordor?

The brilliant morning turns false, its cheer a mockery and a mask over the darker matters it hides, and the soft spring wind takes on a bite as Sam sweats with the fear of what he's hearing-- something about terror and fire and a Shadow, and it's all bound up with Mr. Bilbo's ring, which ain't just a handy trinket, seemingly. No, it ain't a trinket at all. He's not sure what he's hearing; he don't know what it all means, but it's terrible. His throat suddenly tastes of fear and ash, and he can't make his hands work no more. He sits still as a stone, listening with every bit of breath in him....

No. Sam drops his shears, trying to cover the choke of dismay in his throat. Tell me he ain't leaving; tell me he ain't. Not without me; not though I love the Shire more than aught else in the world but Mr. Frodo. I don't care what's come to us; I'll not let him--

Without no warning a hard hand catches hold of Sam's ear, and he's caught and hauled up through the window. He looks over shamefaced at Mr. Frodo, who is just the same as always but somehow not the same-- not at all. Just looking at his master's eyes, which are bright with excitement and terror all at the same time, Sam can feel it all the way through his bones: his whole world's changed. It won't never be the same no more.


	76. Author's Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes

A few issues have come up several times in letters I've received during the writing of this story, some to do with points of troublesome canon or fanon, and whether this series is more movieverse or bookiverse, and technical problems of the sort you always have when making a piece of writing public in stages before it is finished-- even Tolkien had this problem when Bilbo's tale of Smeagol and the riddling didn't mesh well with the way the later trilogy needed to work. 

The tale was originally intended to provide an account of canon Sam's youth and young adulthood up to FOTR; in some ways it approaches that goal, in others it has departed. No explicit LOTR slash story is ever fully canon-compatible, I think, no matter how slashy the canon is. I began with the intent of making this series as compatible with the bookiverse as explicit slash can be, but the movieverse has crept into my mind and made subtle changes to the way I write these characters, and so this series now inhabits some hybrid state halfway between the two. I now consider it an AU of sorts from both, though I did not indulge any extreme departure from either book or movie canon events. 

I would say the biggest change from the bookiverse would have to be in character ages. Unfortunately, since I didn't know where I was going with some of my plot and character points as I wrote along, and I occasionally neglected to carefully consult the Appendix B records, I sometimes picked a character whose age was too low to sustain what that character later needed to become. Therefore, there's been some necessary compression in the separation of character ages, in a rather indistinct but noticeable way-- such as, Pippin is old enough to sled and hold his own against bigger boys when Sam is 20; Jolly is more like Sam's peer than several years his junior (I should have made him Tom, but when he popped up I didn't think he'd be with Sam in the future); Nibs is not really old enough to do heavy lifting and should have been Nick, etc. 

I resist specifying ages, except that I've specified Sam's and Frodo's, which are twelve years apart as is stated (well, sort of-- it's either twelve or fifteen, depending on where you look) in book canon. I am going by Sam's Longfather Tree, in this case. Bilbo is also of bookiverse age relative to those two. The other hobbits are not. 

I am also, as is my usual custom, working out of the idea that hobbit puberty does not happen any later than human puberty; they are merely considered to come to full adulthood a bit later due to various social factors, in my little universe. I know there is a very strong fanon that states otherwise, but I have yet to be convinced canonically that late hobbit puberty is indisputable, and I am at least 3/4 of the way through History of Middle Earth in addition to the trilogy and The Hobbit. 

A few words have also been said about cultural or regional anachronisms along the way; to clarify what I've done, I'll just say that for the most part, I try to stay within the cultural framework specified by Tolkien. Therefore I consider New World vegetables fair game-- Tolkien, after all, introduced potatoes and tobacco to the Shire. Why not squash too? It certainly would suit a hobbit's taste, after a long day sledding, better than a parsnip or a turnip might. Etc. I have tried to eliminate as much lingual and cultural anachronism as I could; however, sometimes I may not have been quick enough to spot it. Still, there was even a Christmas tree mentioned in The Hobbit; thus, I believe there is canonical precedent for quite a bit of wriggle room. So to those select few who vilified me mercilessly back in the day because a tightrope walk and a rope walk aren't the same thing, I can only say: "It's fanfic; it's supposed to be fun. Anyhow, who's to say the Ropers couldn't have manufactured their rope with a traditional rope walk stretching procedure, and then also used a tightrope walking act to sell the finished product? Chill the !@#&^ out."

Dialectically the lower-caste Hobbits herein are my best stab at rural medieval Brit peasant, with a few levels of educational and regional variant-- I'm sure, however, they come out with a bit of Southern USA at times. Much of my local mountain Southern dialect is drawn from similar patterns and descended from European and English forebears; hopefully it is not too intrusive or jarring when it comes up, and I've tried to avoid African-American sourced idiom that southern American English is so marvelously rich in (not because I dislike it, but simply because it doesn't fit well with Tolkien's language choices in my ear). I have done my best with the language; if it is not good enough, it was not due to any lack of sincere effort. Dialect is not an easy thing to do successfully, as I am ruefully aware, and Tolkien's mastery is more or less unapproachable, in my opinion. It's been a fun challenge, though, and it's the way Sam and Jolly and Gaffer all speak up in my mind when they talk to me about any tale, whether I write it down that way or no. ;-) 

OTP is always a problem, no matter what fandom a pairing is in, and so are original characters. I know parts of this series chafe against the OTP grain, and that will prevent some readers from enjoying, or perhaps even from ever beginning (or finishing), the series. I regret that, but I cannot bring myself to regret Jolly or the things I have learned from writing him-- and I think he has helped Sam grow to be what Frodo needs, as well. As with all writing, this has been a learning experience for me, and if I never took risks or never let myself produce imperfect expressions, I would never grow as a writer. Therefore, if Jolly is not to your liking, choose another tale, but I've cause to be glad he's in this one, for all the flaws he may have. 

The one thing I regret most about this story stylewise is that parts of it are in present tense and other parts are in past tense. I wasn't even aware it was doing that for a long time while writing; the chapters came to me at separate times and each took whichever tense it wanted to at the time. I have looked at it thinking that I should really make it consistent-- but it would be a huge labor, it would change the style of the piece drastically, and it would undoubtedly result in me indulging myself in other revisions as well. So each time I think of it, I ultimately decide not to; the story was loved in its day, so to some people it might feel like George Lucas changing Star Wars, an authorial intervention in a beloved product that's annoying rather than an improvement. At this late date, 15 years after its original publication, I think it should be allowed to stand largely as-is, so the only thing I'll change is correcting minor typos, if I happen to find them.

For those of you who wish to journey along, _mae govannen_ , and "may the wind under your wings bear you where the Sun sails and the Moon walks."


End file.
